


The Curse of the Mirror

by angelkat



Series: [collection] Rival Argentica (2014-2018) [20]
Category: The 39 Clues - Various Authors
Genre: And I'm proud of it, Angst, F/M, Gen, Ian angsts over Natalie p much over the entire story, Tragedy, first long term fic so it's terrible, i wrote the plot when i was 14, watch me try to mesh Norse mythology with the 39 clues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:54:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 121,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21803272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelkat/pseuds/angelkat
Summary: In which Ian's grief over Natalie's death slowly destroys him from inside out.Or, Ian Kabra finds a cursed mirror and his grief worsens./reposted Dec 15, 2019. not edited. posted in FFN from Oct 29, 2016 - Jan 19, 2018.
Relationships: Amy Cahill/Jake Rosenbloom, Astrid Rosenbloom & Atticus Rosenbloom, Dan Cahill & Natalie Kabra, Ian Kabra & Atticus Rosenbloom, Ian Kabra & Natalie Kabra, Ian Kabra & Vikram Kabra, Ian Kabra/Amy Cahill, Jake Rosenbloom & Atticus Rosenbloom
Series: [collection] Rival Argentica (2014-2018) [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1570921
Kudos: 2





	1. The Golden Mirror

_Prologue_

The gardens of the Kabra Estate. It was a place worthy of a 'once-upon-a-time'. Spring had come in efflorescence, bright flowers blooming anew and colourful butterflies resurrecting from their cocooned sleep. Blades of grass bowed down as if in respect to the royal passing of the gentle wind, the sky a soft, blue contrast to the cottony string of cirrus clouds that wisped it white like paint on a canvas. The world was so much younger, the sun a brighter and a jollier ring of golden yellow, and the peaceful morning couldn't have been more perfect for an English tea party.

It was a beautiful day. This was the reason why Ian and Natalie were sitting on a table for two out in the gardens, where they decided to have tea in the morning. And, today, Ian had been told by his mother that it was about time that he started teaching to his younger sister the more important things in life—such as how to properly pour a cup of Keemun tea using a blue-and-white themed Wedgwood Oberon tea set.

"…and when you tip the teapot like this," he was explaining, his seven-year-old voice high-pitched by childhood, "you have to do it with grace, dignity, and refinement. This is to please your visitors, and show them without the use of words the real value of the Kabra name." Ian was reciting this by heart from his father's very words. Then, eventually, he finished filling his small teacup with Keemun, and gave it to Natalie for her to drink.

The girl gratefully reached her hands out to get the cup from her brother's hands. But, just as soon as her small hands touched the porcelain of the teacup, a spark burst from within her, making her eyes widen for a moment, before they were downcast again.

Ian noticed. "Is something wrong, Natalie?"

"Ian…I have been thinking."

"Yes?"

"Well…I have been noticing that, whenever I stir the tea with a spoon, centrifugal force… _pulls_ the water outward." Natalie's eyes grew glazed, almost as if in a dreamlike trance, as she composed the one question she had been meaning to ask her brother ever since. Then she looked at him, directly in the eye. "But, don't you find it odd, that even if the water is forcing the tea leaves outward, the leaves _still_ insist on gathering inward?"

Ian smiled. "The tea-leaves paradox. No, I do not find it odd. It has something to do with physics, too complicated to explain to someone like you."

Natalie looked down at the murky reflection of herself in the tea. "Well…I was only wondering if…if, for example, Mummy and Papa's work are like the spoon stirring the tea, pulling everything apart." For a moment, four-year-old Natalie timidly blushed, obviously uncomfortable of what she was about to say. She did her best to avoid Ian's eyes. "But even if Mummy and Papa would t…try to pull us apart, would we…" She timidly lifted her gaze to meet his. "Would the two of us still insist on being together?"

Ian was stunned. It was a very deep and reflective thing for a mere four-year-old to say.

"Do not worry about those things yet, Natalie," he said. "You are not supposed to be thinking of such—"

"Oh, Ian, just answer the question," snapped the younger Kabra, haughtiness starting to seep into her tone. "Would you leave me or not? No matter what happens?"

Ian smiled. "Of course I wouldn't, Natalie. You're the most annoying living thing who'd ever crawled the surface of the Earth, but you're the only sister I have."

Natalie exploded into an outburst. "Crawl? I don't _crawl_. Crawl is such an undignified way of transporting oneself, and I do not—"

"Natalie. Please. We are in a tea party. Maintain grace and refinement."

The girl crossed her arms across her chest, vexed. "Oh, I just hate you."

Ian regally sipped his tea, eyes closed, and voice dripping with amusement. "You very well know that I hate you more."

"I hate you _most!_ "

Ah, this morning couldn't have been more wonderful.

…sadly, this could only remain to be a memory, never to be experienced again.

* * *

I. The Golden Mirror

* * *

"What a downpour out there," exclaimed a woman in a French accent, wiggling out of her raincoat. Wet golden curls cascaded down her back as she removed the hood, small droplets sprinkling out as she tried to shake the sprinkling wetness off. Then she held out a white hand at him, each pearly finger perfectly manicured, as a sign of greeting.

"Tina Andrés," she introduced herself with a white smile, forty-year-old wrinkles disappearing through her classic French radiance. "So you are the young man I am supposed to meet? I am most pleased to meet you, then, Monsieur Ian."

His eyes briefly looked down at the extended hand, feeling a flash of hurt cross his face at the painful sight. He found it difficult to try and keep himself as detached and impassive as possible as he stared at the hand of the lady, almost surprising himself as to how much just a simple picture, a mere, unintended gesture, could make the darkness resurface from the depths of the ocean where he thought that he'd already buried them, never to be seen again. He'd originally planned to make this fast and easy by being inexpressive in all the things he did, thinking that it would ease the painful beat of his heart—but he couldn't help releasing a reaction, his eyes to glisten and glimmer and grow in an expressive sense of yearning. Of longing, of desire, of…of aching hope that he knew was all in vain.

Tina Andrés' features had started to twitch, waiting for Ian to take the hand already and shake it to show even a bit of politeness. But no—Ian barely even acknowledged her as the memories, those painful, agonizing memories, just kept on stinging him like a swarm of bees, demanding his tears to flow and show the true face hiding beneath the mask.

_That hand…_

He recognized that kind of manicure. He recognized that kind of manicure. Soft long fingers, glossy red polish for almond-shaped nails. He had never been as vigorous as her when it came to the art of polishing nails, but he'd been so used at the sight for many years, it was impossible for him not to even blink his recognition of it.

…it was the style of Natalie's manicurist back in Paris.

Cringing down at the sight, he forced his eyes to look up to his visitor's blue, expectant ones. He lifted his hand, and for a second, Mrs Andrés let herself a small smile; but Ian's hand didn't meet hers as she expected. Instead, Ian completely ignored the offer of a handshake by clearing his throat, and awkwardly looking at another direction, his eyes wandering in a distance as he introduced himself next.

"Ian Kabra, likewise." He kept his accent clipped, smile strained. "We shall start the tour, then. This way, Mrs Andrés."

This person standing in front of him was one of the richest people in the world—she was influenced by the wealth of her billionaire husband, while she, on her own, produced money by being a remarkable businesswoman. She was among the people standing at the pinnacle of the rich-poor triangle, and people respected her for that. But before, Ian would have probably raised an eyebrow in scepticism at this, knowing fully well that his family was richer, _better_ , than anything and everything else—he had, to put it simply, everything that a child could ever ask for.

But all things were different now.

He still held some form of pride in him like before, yes. But the change of his heart was evident in how he now dealt with peasants, like his cousins; through the…incidents he had went through, he'd grown to learn how to be a bit kinder. Well, he detested the term, for he had been far too used to ruthlessness that kindness almost meant nothing to him; but still, that was a change, a major turn in his life that time and fate had taught him through the hard and cruel way. By taking away his parents, by taking away his riches, by taking away his sibling, by simply taking away everything else until he had nothing else to cling on to, everything had changed.

It hurt his pride, as well as himself, in thinking that that change included how his richness and life was reduced to impoverishment and metaphorical death in just a matter of seconds.

He was going to sell his beloved mansion.

He barely talked throughout the tour. It was Mrs Andrés who guided herself around. Ian thought it was unacceptable, since he is still the owner of the mansion—quite rude of that woman to feel like it's hers already. But later on, Ian thought he didn't mind at all; he was in no joyful mood to speak and act as her tour guide, anyway.

He was, to put it bluntly, the opposite of joyful.

Ian impassively led a happy, talkative Mrs Andrés through the Kabra Manor—once a lively, gratifying castle for a mansion, now an empty, abandoned heap of dust and concrete. Mrs Andrés was one lively woman, gesturing around as she took in all the sights, even though there was not much to show off, just the size of the mansion. Oh, how he envied her. She was too joyful on such a rainy day, her cheery voice annoying his ears so much that he had to suppress the urge not to shoot her with his dart gun—how dare she act so sunnily when he was currently unable to find his way through the darkness? He was growing tired of it—of her voice, of his life, of everysingle bleeding thing. He had woken up on far too many mornings on wet pillows that it eventually numbed his entire body to the point of lifelessness, exhausting every last bit of emotion that he had had, and now he couldn't even gather an ounce of energy to even show the smallest hint of vitality.

But every time he thought he was over and done with, finally empty of those stupid emotions that kept on riling him, even as he thought that there was no emotion left in him anymore—they just kept on building up, in an infuriatingly fast way that made him want to tackle them himself so badly. Nowadays, in everything he saw, in everyone he met, somehow, he saw the faintest presence of his sister—he felt like Natalie was among them, following him, haunting him, both in during the day and into his nightmares. Like for her, this was merely a simple peasant game of hide-and-seek that she was starting to enjoy seeing him get tortured by it.

Oh, he had to smile at that thought. Natalie had this habit of wanting to see Ian defeated whenever the two of them raced down the stairs or competed in a game of chess. He and Natalie had always been rivals…always wanting to get ahead of the other, a healthy competition that would always either make him laugh at his utter success or Natalie to squeal in joy with hers. Thinking of it made a lot of good memories to burst through the storm clouds.

The storm clouds, though, would be immediate in their reactions to block out the sun and envelope him in darkness once again. Ian released a sigh, the tiniest hint of delight in his face carried away by a breeze like the remains of a whisked out candle, emptiness filling him once more. Because no matter how hard he tried, the bad memories still managed to outnumber the good ones.

"Oh, isn't this the way to the dining hall?" Confusion was etched onto Mrs Andrés' face as she gestured at a door.

He stopped dead in his tracks, and stared at the said door, his inward horrification succeeding in working its way to his face. The image of Natalie's fur coat in that dining hall flashed through his mind.

Natalie's fur coat. That…that dreadful day. That awfully, dreadful day that he could have prevented, and yet he didn't, he didn't, he _didn't_. This dining hall was the last time where she'd left her fur coat before she went to shop at the Harrods, and had then been kidnapped by the Vespers. It was a happening he could have prevented, he should have been more protective, he should have gone shopping with her that day, or he probably should have never let her out of his sight for even a single second in the first place, and yet, and yet, and yet…

…he _didn't_.

Ian clenched his fists, keeping his face as emotionless as possible.

He proceeded to walk to the right, purposefully ignoring the befuddled woman's question. No, opening the doors of this particular dining hall would bring too many memories, too many regrets that he feared would overflow any second now. It was hard enough for him to walk around his mansion, only to remind him of the things from the past that he didn't want to get reminded of, but facing this dining hall that reeked of nothing but despair, _no_. His wordless stride eventually got the message clear across the room, and Mrs Andrés reluctantly followed after him, grumbling about the impoliteness of teens nowadays.

A few seconds of silence passed when Ian finally spoke, opening the door to another massive room. "The ballroom," he said in a bored tone.

Mrs Andrés didn't even notice her companion's melancholic amber eyes as he said this, because she had already taken a look at the place around her, rendering herself breathless.

"Simply admirable," she marvelled, eyeing the intricate designed painted on the ceiling overhead. She was right—the place was admirable, marvellous even, even without the furniture that must've occupied the chamber sometime ago. Her stilettoes clicked on the floor's intricate tiles some more as she approached the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, their elegant frame design adopting a Renaissance look that even King Henry VIII would have been jealous.

Ian let her take a look around, him blankly hovering behind her to make sure he explained things where Mrs Andres became too fascinated in, like the fancy window sills or the flowery tile design. He made sure to follow her in her footsteps despite hating acting like a butler. The words 'butler' and 'Ian Kabra' did not belong to the same dimension—but he guessed he did not have much of a choice now, did he?

A heavy breath escaped his lips. He had sunk far too low that even he had to pity himself for his pitiful situation. Everything may have changed, especially since the Clue Hunt. But everything had crashed, ever since…ever since she died.

He clenched his fists as he explained to Mrs Andrés the history of the floor design that graced the ballroom, voice turning stiff midsentence.

Ever since she died.

He tried not to think about it, but he cannot drift his thoughts away from her. Her death was the reason that everything did not matter anymore. The memories hidden in this mansion, Ian was willing to simply sell away, if it meant ceasing the pain in his tired and exhausted heart even just a little. He simply cannot have the tolerance to live in here anymore, no, not, never anymore, where he somehow felt Natalie's presence lurking in every corner, paining him, threatening to rip the sanity away from him and make him break down into tears, right then and now. And he cannot live in a place like that. He cannot live in a home that made him feel pathetically tearful every five minutes.

So, now, he has decided to just give it to someone who will take care of it for him so he could forget about it for good.

Mrs Andrés lifted a hand to press it against the stained glass windows, albeit dusty. "What about this, then, Mr Kabra?"

"My mother had acquired the service of a practiced smith." He tried to make his tone even, and maintain a bored voice as to deflate those feelings away. "It had almost cost Mum a million pounds."

_Mum._

She nodded reverently at the crown, gently putting it down, and turned to examine the other artefacts—or lack thereof, seeing as this place had long since been emptied out. She continued to walk around, taking in the sights.

The Lucian was just about to move, but something flew down to Ian's feet. A piece of paper? Ian looked up, and realized that it must have come from the metal flanks of the windows. He knelt to pick it up, and by the touch of it, no, he realized that it was not a simple scrap of paper—it was photo paper. He turned it over in his hand, and was surprised to see the photograph still alive through all the years.

The photo had been taken so many years ago that the edges were beginning to turn yellow. Isabel was smiling sweetly as ever, while Vikram looked strained trying to smile. Natalie was probably just three years old then, and was trying to push Ian into the scene, who was looking down scornfully on his ice-cream-splattered shoes.

Ian's grip on the photo tightened, as if for dear life.

They were just so…happy.

He wondered if his fate would have been the same if they were a poor family instead, not a rich one. He wondered what could have happened if his mother had been the gentle and caring kind who didn't dream of world domination. He wondered what could have happened if his father hadn't left them in the dark. He wondered if his fate would've been the same if he had hurried over to Natalie and warned her of the danger of the Machina Fini Mundi.

And he'd just been inches from the spot where he had the chance to save her. Milliseconds from stopping her. Yet, he still failed, like the pathetic…like the pathetic imbecile he was.

He wondered if his fate would have been the same if he was never born a Cahill at all.

Ian looked down at the floor and stared angrily through thin air, clenching his fists, gritting his teeth, scolding himself for even feeling in such a way.

_Touchy, now, aren't we, Ian Kabra?_

Mrs Andrés turned around to face a staircase. She sighed in contentment, dreamily staring up at the Spanish-style staircase. _This mansion is going to be mine soon_. She took one delicate step on the first of the line of stairs, hand in position to start trailing the silver staircase. But then she stopped, looking back at Ian, who seemed to be lost in thought, staring at some sort of photograph he was tightly gripping in his hand.

"Young Monsieur Ian," she called out. "How ever have you acquired a mansion this…this _massive_ and—and…and extraordinarily magnifique, anyway? Luxurious family, no?"

Ian flinched at the question, shadows flickering over his eyes. Noticing this, the kind buyer softened her tone.

"Oh. So perhaps it is—"

"Yes, indeed, it is none of your business," he snapped. With a wave of his fingers, he urged her on. "Proceed in examining the mansion. If you think this is your cup of tea, we can arrange the papers immediately. And the door is open if you don't."

It wasn't exactly the best way to convince a buyer, but this was starting to become unpleasant for him. A little hurt by the sixteen-year-old's snide remark, Mrs Andrés silently took the path upstairs, Ian calmly following behind her. The woman chose not to speak, for she was afraid to disturb the young boy from his thoughts. But Mrs Andrés risked a look back to survey him.

Contemplative eyes not even looking where he was going, his long strides working by themselves. Hand put in his pocket, the other tossed carelessly at his side. Throwing out insults and offences as though wanting to make the other feel hurt, because he doesn't want to be the only one hurting. From the way he talked so stiffly as if restraining a yawn. The tiredness that radiated from his numb posture. There were many other signs that Mrs Andrés knew pointed to his absent presence. Physically near, but out of reach. Though Ian looked normal and casual—well, as far as a British teenage boy in an expensive Ralph Lauren suit can be—he looked like he was hiding something.

She knew those signs for a reason. Because she, herself, was hiding something as well…

They reached the top of the stairs. Though the Kabra Manor was basically empty, dark with its unlighted hallways, and incredibly dusty with misuse, Mrs Andrés couldn't help but feel awed by the majestic mahogany hallway in front of her. There could be rows of crystal chandeliers placed above, and might've been a light show if the switch is flicked on. There were doors on each side, indicating the rooms. This must be the guest dorms.

Mrs Andrés, impressed by the elegant designs and sophisticated art, walked over to one painting and looked up to see a beautiful girl's shining amber eyes stare down at her with an almost-sardonic expression. It kind of piqued her interest at the fact that this was the only painting she saw throughout the mansion. It was as if it was left here alone in purpose.

The painting was of a girl. Her face was contorted in a sadistic kind where one eyebrow is arched, and, the other, flat as if mocking. The girl sort of looked like young in her early teens, dressed by a bright red gown—the shade of red was so vibrant, it seemed to glow and stand-out amidst the invisible darkness that surrounded the entire mansion all this time. The picture was chillingly charming. Black hair softly flowed down her exposed back, a victorious smirk playing across her red lips. Hidden behind her red ball gown, however, was her gloved hand, fingers ready to trigger the glinting little figure of the sleek, silver and perfectly concealed…wait a minute.

Was that a _dart gun_?

Shegulped. The strange thing was that this girl kind of resembled the one person standing behind her in terms of features. _Could she be his sister?_ Mrs Andrés asked herself. One could just imagine her shocked reaction as a clipped British voice snapped through her thoughts.

"I hate to interrupt your daydreaming, Mrs Andrés, but we need to get moving." Ian's head turned up from glancing down at his Rolex. "This appointment has far exceeded the time I allotted for it. I wish you understand, but we need to get moving."

"And please." He accidentally stole a short glimpse of the beautiful girl's portrait hanging behind the woman, but his head turned away from it in an immediate flash. A gesture that seemed to tell as if he'd been trying to endure the intensity of those particular pair of vivid and spirited amber eyes all along. As Mrs Andrés observed more closely, she actually noticed a slight sheen of moist covering the young Kabra's eyes, as if the mere second of looking at the portrait had already cut through him like a knife.

What she didn't know was that the portrait was a picture of Natalie Hollingsworth Kabra, the dead sister of Ian who was never to share the joys of holding a dart gun with him again.

Ian was staring straight through the emptiness of air in front of him. "Let's go on with the inspection."

Then Ian walked forward, impassively striding down the empty halls.

Mrs Andrés withdrew her hand from touching the portrait of the enigmatic girl in the red ball gown— thoughts now focused on the fact that she had seen Ian's eyes glisten with emotion, despite his voice showing none. She followed him, her happy blue eyes filling up with tears. She understood the young lad. She understood why he hid in a mask, because that is exactly what she is doing all along as well; blabbering her way through time, as a way to conceal.

 _Her daughter, Liana, has this incurable disease…_ and the doctors say she may not live long to be the famous singer she had always dreamed to become.

Mrs Andrés stopped walking. No. No. Buying this mansion is wrong. She felt that it was wrong. What would her sick daughter feel if she knew that her mother was throwing her money around on buying elegant mansions while she suffered in pain?

"Young monsieur?" Mrs Andrés said, the joy in her voice gone, now replaced by doubt, concern, hesitation, the change in her move drastic enough to make Ian stop in his tracks. The younger Kabra turned around to meet her eyes.

"Yes, Mrs Andrés?" For the first time in the whole day, she thought she saw ghosts of smiles light up his handsome features with hope. "So I render this mansion has finally caught your fancy?"

Mrs Andrés paused. She wouldn't want to disappoint the young child—he seemed so hopeful in finally having found a buyer to sell his mansion to. But there was something oddly queer about his tone. It was as if he was glad, not because of the large sum of money to be received in selling this. He was glad, because…because of something else.

Because he wanted to get rid of the mansion in itself.

That would explain his stiff mood. The tense aura emanating from him. The soulful amber eyes soullessly locked on staring at thin air, as if he didn't want to see the rest of the mansion. Simply because it hurt. He wanted this mansion gotten rid of, to someone who would take care of it—like her.

But she can't buy this mansion. Her daughter is sick…

"I'm sorry, Mr Kabra," she said shakily. "But—but I've just decided that—my daughter—"

She was interrupted by a ringing phone. It was hers. She fished it out, flipped it open, and put it on her ear.

"Hello? _Oui_ , _oui_ , I am Tina Andrés." Face contorts. "My daughter? What happened? Is she—" Tightens, then horrified. "She's _missing_? This cannot be… Haven't you contacted the police? —no? _No?_ " Her voice raised an octave, to the point of desperate shouting. "Then what on earth are you _doing_ , waiting for flying pigs? Contact the police _now_ or I'll have you fired!"

She slammed the phone shut. _Don't worry, my child Liana, mamère would be coming for you…_

Ian didn't know whether to act amused or concerned.

"I am sorry, Mr Kabra…but I don't think I should be buying your mansion after all." She started to run downstairs, leading herself to the exit with a confused Ian frozen in place. _That was not good news_. Mrs Andrés turned around to face him for a second. "Nonetheless, thank you for inviting me. Bonjour."

Grabbing her raincoat, she fled into the rain.

* * *

Ian was in a daze. So Tina Andrés left him alone.

Not that he minded. He was used to it, anyway.

Frowning all the way at the disappointment of losing a potential buyer for his mansion, he stepped down the stairs, suitcase in hand. He had had gathered some of his old clothes from his former wardrobe, thinking of using them—it was horrid actually _reusing_ his old clothes, he knew—while he temporarily lived with the Cahills in Boston. It's what Amy commanded him to do, lest she scold him again for being such a, quote-unquote, 'loner'. And he could never stand up against Amy the Madrigal.

She thought that it was a way for him to get over his depression. But despite the efforts of his cousins of trying to turn his chin up, Ian kept on thinking that there's probably no other reason for him to live, anyway, now that Natalie's gone. Ian even mentioned clues of intentions of suicide.

This terrified everyone, especially Amy. And that is why she kept working hard to cheer him up. None of her efforts ever seemed to work, though.

Today, when Ian had announced to Amy that he'd go back to London to pick up some things—clothes, etc.—and entertain a certain Tina Andrés, Amy had been a bit panicked. She had probably been thinking that Ian's plan of suicide was supposed to happen any time now. The latter was annoyed, complaining that there was no reason for her to panic. He told her off about not sending any spies or helicopter rovers to keep track of his every move—that was inevitable for Amy's overthinking and overtrained mind. He strictly told her that he wanted to go alone, but Amy did not make him leave until he promised her that he'd be home in time for dinner.

Oh, Gideon _._ Ian had merely wanted to get some more clothes for him to wear—his clothing stocks back there were getting destroyed one-by-one, courtesy to Saladin the Irritating Egyptian Mau.

He crossed the guest room of the mansion. But something in his pocket vibrated. He fished out his ringing phone from his pocket. The caller ID was Amy Cahill.

Ian grip on the phone tightened. He tapped on the screen to accept the call and put it on his ear.

"Greetings."

There was some sort of a relieved sigh escaping Amy's lips. Ian frowned. _Perhaps she thought I already killed myself?_

"Oh, thank goodness you're alright," she said. Ian didn't respond.

Awkward pause.

"Um…you _are_ okay, aren't you?"

Ian walked through the hallway, and decided to steer away the subject from him. "Anyway, is there something important you were going to tell me? I'm just about to go home, so don't worry—"

The redhead on the other line cut him off. "Phoenix called and told me they're picking you up soon at your mansion. Just reminding." She paused, as if guilty for having lied to him about the not-sending-any-spies-and-helicopter-rovers thingy. "It's…for safety reasons."

So much for getting home in peace. Now Amy had to destroy it by sending him people who would chain him in the airplane propellers while they danced around the fire. "I thought I told you, Amy," Ian carped, "I can go home without the aid of those loud, volatile Cahills who even consider themselves as human be—"

"Well," Amy countered, voice flaming. "It's better than you going home alone. You know how worried I'm getting about you these days…"

He scoffed. "Do you really think that lowly of me?" He wasn't _that_ vulnerable to giving in to depressive emotions, is he? Lucians resist transparency, and it was an insult Amy even doubted his self-control skills when it came to emotions. He was supposed to be an _expert_ on emotions, not an underdog. "You are purposefully making this difficult. Very well, there's Phoenix. At least he's half-decent. But who else is there?"

"Let's see…" Amy was tapping on her chin. "There's Phoenix, Jonah, Hamilton, Dan, and Nellie—she's piloting Jonah's jet. Don't worry, you'd be totally fine."

Understatement.

"By 'fine'," he seethed crossly, "do you imply that I'll be completely out of my mind when I get there?"

Amy laughed, thinking it was a joke. "Please _,_ you nut." And she laughed again, as if it was the funniest joke ever made by man.

Ian felt weird, listening to her gentle, affable laugh—his mind trying to wrap around the fact that she laughed at him. He actually made someone laugh. He couldn't believe it. He himself couldn't laugh, and yet he was able to make someone else laugh. He didn't know that he'd changed so much, that he'd been changed so much—it felt so different, that before he actually met his cousins, he was perched, high above in a pedestal, but now…he felt like nothing more like the goody-goody peasant. Strangely, though, he almost didn't mind it. In fact, he…liked it. It felt good being kind to other people, making them happy instead just for yourself.

How could he do something like that in the midst of his misery? To make someone else happy? He didn't know it'd feel so good, and he didn't _want_ to feel good in times of mourning like this—but his facial muscles couldn't suppress that small little smile, and his shoulders just couldn't help it but to lose all tension and finally relax. He hadn't felt this good in weeks. And how could _she_ do something like that, that with only the gentle sound of her laugh, she is able to make him feel the littlest bit better, even just the tiniest smidgeon of happiness in the universe's giant vessel of stars, to make his day brighten, to chase the darkness away with only that one little light—

But she suddenly stopped laughing.

There was a heavy silence that followed, and he wondered for a second what was suddenly wrong. It was eerily silent in the other line, but when he looked at the screen of his phone, he saw that there was no problem with the signal.

"Hello, Amy?" he asked, a feeling of alarm washing over him like a tidal wave. His Cahill instincts were kicking in. "Are you still…?"

"What? Oh, yes, yes, I'm s-still here," Amy seemed to suddenly break out of a trance when she spoke, stuttering mildly. "So, uh, what were you, um, saying? Again?"

Ian sighed, choosing the rational reason to fill in the sudden, albeit weird, silence. His instincts stopped ringing aloud. Whatever that was about, it was a false alarm. "Alright then," he said, slowly, awkwardly. "Call them and tell them I'd be waiting at Twilight Coffee instead. It's a coffee shop across the street in front of the mansion."

"O-okay, w-w-whatever." She took a few inhales of shaky breath, and for a second Ian wondered why she suddenly seemed so out of her element just now. But she continued on talking, further distracting Ian away from the unnecessary thought. "Jake's calling and I-I need to go." She cleared her throat, sounding frustrated at herself for stuttering too much—Ian can't explain that little smirk playing on the edge of his lips, but her stutter just brought about a hurdle of memories from the old days.

"Just…d-don't do anything reckless, okay?" Amy sounded firmer this time. "I don't want you to…you know. Things will work out, and we're in this together. I promise."

By 'anything reckless', she meant 'don't cut your own head off'.

Ian walked slowly towards the doors of his mansion, the elegant carvings gloomy and covered in dust. He stared up at the doors, a sense of longing persistently tugging at him.

"Yes," he responded, his face cast by a shadow.

"O…okay then," Amy said, a little hesitantly. "Bye. Be safe."

_Click._

Ian pocketed the phone, the ghost of a smile on his face disappearing. _Jake_. Amy ended the phone call, because there was a pesky Rosenbloom behind the scene. But the young Lucian chose to shrug it off. Why did it matter, anyway?

Ian opened the doors of his mansion and was immediately met by the torrent of rain that had been raging for hours outside. Wind blew hard, leaves and twigs getting blown away. He sighed; another dreary grey day here in London. He was just about to—

" _Mamère?"_

His ears perked at the tiny sound, and looked up. As he did, he saw a girl beyond the gates of his mansion, of about his age of sixteen years, with wet, blond pigtails sticking on her back. Rain continued to rage, across the empty grounds, and Ian arched an eyebrow at this rather strange scene.

_What is this girl doing outside in the rain?_

"Mamère!" The girl started to run, her feet sloshing onto the wet pavement. The rain was becoming more and more clamorous, what with the heavy raindrops hammering against the iron roofs of the houses beyond and the occasional thunders that roared from a distance. The band of rain created noise that filled the silence from miles across, for most of the people preferred to stay indoors and wait for the storm to stop before returning back to their business. A flash of lightning lit up the entire area like day, before shadows fell once again; flickering against Ian's narrowed amber eyes, suspicious of what this girl would be doing all alone in the middle of the storm, without even some sort of umbrella to protect her from the cold, hurtling droplets that continuously collided against the earth.

"Wait, Mamère!" she cried, her voice surprisingly shrill to his ears that betrayed her small, seemingly sickly thin form.

Is it just him, or did the girl's appearance, accent, and voice sounded strangely similar to…to…Mrs Tina Andrés? Could this be the ill girl she had been muttering about earlier? _No, no, it couldn't be…_ that would be too much of a coincidence, wouldn't it?

"I'm here, Mamére," the girl continued to cry out, tears streaming down her eyes, pupils diluted to pinpricks, flailing her arms forward as if reaching for something, as if desperately trying to grab at something, but only succeeding in seizing at empty air, causing her to drunkenly stumble forwards, just as an insane person would do. "Wait for me, Mamére, _please!_ "

Ian looked at the direction where the girl was gesturing to. He saw nothing—only rows and rows of endless trees, peppered with the grey rain. Emptiness. He saw no one who could possibly be this girl's…'mamére', or mother.

Either he's seeing things, or this girl's the one seeing things.

"Mamère, no, wait, please!" she cried out loud, desperately, before disappearing permanently behind the trees.

Ian had to blink several times in a sea of confusion after the act stopped playing before him.

What…what had just…happened?

Ian was just about to shrug off the weird scene off his shoulders. But something twinkled and glinted harshly against his eyes. His eyes looked beyond the gates to see what it was. Temporarily dropping his suitcase gently onto the dry ground of the porch, he opened his umbrella and walked to the gates, unlocked them, and walked gingerly outside to see what the twinkling thing was.

A mirror.

A…mirror?

Ian looked far behind to his left and right, but saw no traces of the girl whatsoever. Hm. Maybe she dropped this. He bent down to pick it up, his fingers gingerly holding the intricate, golden handle, which snaked around the mirror's ancient borders. A red gem was placed in the middle, the lone decoration of the old-fashioned accessory. It looked very… _ancient_ , and even he would say that it looked quite inexpensive, from the looks of it. It appeared more of like an historical relic than a female's fashion accessory, and it fairly baffled him as to why such an archaic object would be in the possession of one of the modern world's modern girls.

He was about to drop it back to the ground, disinterested in keeping such a prehistoric artefact that just might destroy his Kabra reputation. And besides, that weird…girl might come looking back for it. But just before he dropped it, some unexplainable entity forced him to look at his reflection first—and that was when he felt like he couldn't put the mirror down.

He stared at his unblinking reflection, the seconds seeming to blindly pass him by as he took in the rather marvellous sight. There was an ochre, iridescent glow glinting inside the mirror as if the blazing fires of hell itself had been trapped behind the sheen of reflecting glass. The ghostly elements of molten gold scintillated mystically from inside of it, distorting his reflection in an…inexpressively, for the lack of a better term, odd but enchanting way. He felt as if there was some hidden force in there, a smooth, calm, feminine voice, soft but strangely relentless, that called out to him, gently coaxing him, _enticing_ him, luring him in, willing him to fall into an illusion and tempting him to sleep for an eternity…a satisfyingly deep, dreamless sleep…it was so tempting, he wanted to say yes, he wanted to fall into that sleep, and never, never, never wake up ever agai—

Ian snapped his eyes open in shock, waking from his unconscious trance.

_What?_

He blinked several times, that one word echoing throughout his head like a gong as he swivelled his head from left and right, as if unconsciously trying to make sure he was still aligned to the nature of the real world. And strangely, his breath had hitched, his chest heaving up and down, his face wide-eyed as if he had just been harshly pulled out to the surface from underneath the deep waters of the ocean. He looked back at his reflection in the mirror, the peculiarity of it dumbfounding him more and more as he studied his uncanny reflection. Questions swirled around and around his head, like a swarm of bees stinging him to get his attention, but only one, frightening question dominated above them all—

Had he really just been about to actually close his eyes?

…in mindless obedience?

To this _mirror?_

Before his mind could continue debating, Ian suddenly went stiff. He felt something move behind him, warning bells frantically ringing around inside his head. _Yes, yes he did feel something…someone…_ He cautiously bent his mirror at an angle to see who or what was behind him, and saw a black figure bending down to pick up something from the ground.

Wait…was that…was that his family photo?

How in Luke Cahill's name did it get there?

Alarmed, Ian whirled around to catch the face of the thief. But the black figure had already sprinted past him, out the gates of his own mansion, carrying with it the only reminder Ian had of his family.

_How dare…_

With no time to think, Ian dropped his umbrella on the ground and started running after the robber in a desperate chase, legs pumping themselves to their limits. It was so unlike him to value such a thing, such a simple family photo, but the photo contained the most valuable meanings his life had ever had.

_Natalie…Mum…Father…_

His family.

The rain pounded heavily down his back, down his bangs, down his face—but Ian Kabra, yes, _Ian Kabra_ , did not care. "Give it back to me, you thief!"

The person didn't give any clue that he/she heard him.

He gritted his teeth. _No one ignored Ian Kabra_. He was just about to run even faster, but his foot went over a rock and he was lunged forward, tearing away his focused vision of the black figure for one, painful little second. Fortunately, he caught himself before hitting the ground, and his eyes immediately went back on the road in pursuit of the thief—

But the strange black figure was gone.


	2. The Familiar Stranger

That was impossible.

He straightened himself up to his full height, his eyes scanning over the empty road before him in utter astonishment.

He takes one second off of the thief, and then the said scoundrel… _disappears_?

No, no, no, no, no…that was _impossible_.

He clenched his hands into fists so tight they turned white. Rainwater dripped from his hair, down to his chin, drenching him in his Armani clothes. He was panting heavily after having exerted himself, running after a thief that wasn't even there. He scanned his eyes over the bare, empty grey street, not believing what he had just witnessed; his mind not being able to comprehend anything at all. He was as if a drunken, wide-eyed man who kept on mindlessly flailing his hands in the air to desperately grasp the unknown truth, but only to succeed in seizing nothing at all.

He didn't know if it was just him, but saying it that way was scarily similar to the girl he had just witnessed earlier, who kept on calling for her mamére who wasn't even there.

But now, Ian felt like he understood what that girl had been going through—because people don't just… _disappear_. Do they? Unless, of course…it was a...a ghost, maybe?

Before he could ponder any further on the matter, he was yanked out of his dazed trance and into the reality when he suddenly felt a light tap on his shoulder. He froze, eyes widening, then scolded himself. A ghost? Bah! What had he been thinking? Of _course_ it was not a ghost—someone was merely playing tricks on him. Well, he did not find it funny. He hated the realization that this… _someone_ had the gall to play around on _him_ , for Gideon's sake, the prince of all trickery himself. So before he could stop himself, he whirled around, ready to lash out some _very_ colourful language at whoever even _dared_ steal something of his—

"Dude!" Dan Cahill exclaimed, expressively shocked at the amount of rage plastered across his Kabra cousin's face, raising his hands in the air as if surrendering to the police. "All right, all right—I'll commit seppuku!"

The 'Dweeb'—as Amy would point it out—shut up when Nellie's hand met the back of his head.

"Ow!"

"See," Hamilton bragged, "I told you guys it's him."

Ian couldn't believe himself, and he had to blink several times before he comprehended everything. Of course.

It's _them_ all along.

The father of all exasperated sighs heavily escaped his mouth as he shook his head, frustrated. Of course, of course, of-bloody- _course_ , what had he been _thinking_? That the thief was a, what, a ghost who disappeared into the air? _Please_. Ian had more than enough logic in his head to realize the absurdity of the idea. Ghosts don't exist, nor do people who just disappear into the air. There had to be some rational explanation, and the rational explanation was his Cahill cousins. Gaining his voice, the young Lucian rasped his voice out, extending his hand to them expectantly.

"If you don't mind…?" Ian patiently said, hand waiting in the air.

The eyes of the trio—Dan, Nellie, Hamilton—fell down onto the extended hand.

Dan slowly raised his own hand, met it with Ian's, and shook it with a stupid look plastered across his face.

Ian's face could have exploded with the intensity of Vesuvius.

"No, you dim-witted _fool!_ " Ian yelled, swatting the younger's hand away as if it was a fly. "I fail to find the humour in this. Give it back."

"Give you what back?" Orange hair fell to the side when Nellie confusedly cocked her head, looking at him as if he just announced that he was a frog from now on. "And, anyway, we need to get you to Twilight Coffee—you're drenched." She gestured to all him, and Ian looked down, realizing what he'd just done to himself in running the midst of the rain. "Now come on. Jonah and Phoenix are waiting back at the café."

Ian stopped examining himself and took a deep breath. "Give. It. Back."

Dan paused from scratching Saladin's neck, and the cat mewled angrily at Ian for making his master pause. "Give you _what_ back?" Dan bit out.

Hamilton's eyes widened when he saw the sparkling mirror in Ian's hand. "Whoa—whatcha got there?"

Ian yanked it away before he could touch it. He did not falter. "The photo. You _stole_ it." He crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at the three—four, plus Saladin—creatures huddled underneath their umbrellas. "I should have known. You were spying on me all this time, and, news flash: I do _not_ find it funny."

The sound of the pounding rain sounded more noxious for Ian when Hamilton, Nellie, and Dan exchanged puzzled looks. "Dude, who told you we were spying on you?" Dan said. "As much as I would've loved to—it would _definitely_ be awesome, considering how boring these past days have been—we weren't!"

"We just got here and saw you running like you were chasing someone," Hamilton said, the weight of his words sinking onto Ian's now confused mind.

After seconds of studying each of their faces, Ian's crossed arms tentatively fell to his side, detecting that there was, indeed, pure honesty injected in their confused voices. "I _was_ chasing someone," he carefully enunciated, pointing at the road behind him. "Are you blind? Haven't you seen the thief running down there?"

The only answer he got was the silence of the thundering rain.

"You _might_ want to splash some water on your face, Ian," Nellie said slowly, brows scrunched up. "We are the only ones out here in the middle of the rain. We, as in, me, one dweeb, and one muscle-bound bag of...muscles." She earned one annoyed look each from Hamilton and Dan, and a choked _mrrp_ from Saladin, as if trying to remind Nellie that she _might_ have just forgotten one of them. Nellie rolled her eyes.

"And one _very_ grumpy cat, of course, I was just going to mention you." Then she returned to Ian. "Now that I look at you, _you_ don't look fine to me. Are you sure you were running after a thief? Because I'm pretty sure the streets are deserted. And the last five seconds, we just saw you run as if you were shouting at someone, when there's practically no one to shout at."

She stretched her hand to her side to emphasize the empty street behind her, which proved her point.

"Well, you do look a bit pale," Hamilton pointed out, agreeing with Nellie. "Do you have a fever or something? High fever causes delusions," he added, trying to be helpful.

Their words felt like razors shredding every last bit of sanity Ian had at the moment. Sanity? What sanity? He had just been informed that he was running out here in the middle of the raining streets like a delusional man, and yet he had been absolutely sure that he had just been chasing someone else—he could swear on it for a thousand lives, if he had them.

He looked back at his mirror, angling it to see the grey pavement behind him. There was nothing. He tore his gaze from the mirror, and looked back at the street himself. Nothing again.

Now he didn't know who or what to believe.

"Hey, I-dawg," said Hamilton, forcing Ian out of his trance. Slowly, the concerned Tomas added, "Is…something wrong?"

The hand holding his golden mirror tightened.

Maybe he forgot to have tea this morning. Yes. That must be it. Ridiculous. He saw nothing, he saw nothing, he saw nothing. It was impossible to see a person just disappear like that, right? Right. Then his beliefs were settled, then. Maybe it was just a trick of the light…yes, yes, just a simple, trick of the light. It was—

"Nothing."

…and he tried not to think about the family photo stolen from him, which was absolutely not a 'nothing'.

* * *

_London, England  
Sometime between the Clue hunt and the Vespers_

It was a starry night back then, and all the Cahill cousins stood outside the gigantic doors of the Kabra manor, all dressed for the Halloween Party that Uncle Fiske had prepared for them that was just about to take place right there and now. Then the doors finally opened, revealing a sparkly Natalie in a black, shimmering Vampire Queen designer dress in high-heeled, blood-red Prada shoes, glistening with a Lucian-like glimmer under the dim, Halloween lights from the inside.

Dan, who was dressed like the great ninja Naruto, just gaped at Natalie's natural femme fatale radiance. Oh ninja gods, she'd make a good kunoichi. How come he had never thought that Natalie would make an awesome female ninja action figure?

"Good evening, Cahills, and welcome!" Natalie raised her hand in the air elegantly, like a cat about to scratch—and something glinted. Dan noticed that she was wearing a simple, silver chain bracelet (uh, no, it wasn't silver, per se, it's actually just stainless steel) with a heart-shaped locker glimmering under the dim lights. He couldn't believe she actually wore it! _He_ was the one who actually gave her that bracelet, mostly as an insult to remind her that she was a peasant now, just 'like all of them'. It was quite un-Natalie-'har-har-I'm-so-pretty-and-you-look-like-a-peasant'-Kabra of her to wear such a plain ornament. He couldn't believe she actually wore it. Just a simple heart shaped locker? She's sure getting cheaper and cheaper these days. Usually that Cobra wore diamonds and rubies…but not and never a simple chain bracelet so thin that it's barely even noticeable.

As soon as he processed this thought, though, he immediately slapped himself mentally. ' _Barely even noticeable'? Then why did YOU notice it? Have you been STARING at her this whole time?_

He mentally slapped himself again.

 _Gah, Daniel, get a grip! It's just a bracelet, and why in the name of the great ninja Naruto are you staring at that stupid bracelet?_ _Wait a minute, did I JUST call myself DANIEL?_

His brawling thoughts were interrupted when Natalie caught him gawking at her, and she smirked—the glint in her golden amber eyes even brighter than any gemstone in the world.

"What a surprise to see you actually…decent, Daniel," she said, a bit of distaste tinting her voice, but otherwise complementing him in some sort of strange, unexplainable way—and at this, Dan blushed. Oh glorious ninja lords, he'd actually _blushed_ , the apocalypse must be drawing near. He tried hiding his blush, though, by hurriedly skittering towards the chocolate fountain where he dipped his fingers and sucked each one into his mouth.

He did that because in no wise would Dan let her know that he had blushed under her gaze—or, if she _did_ notice that one little blush, this little trick might overcome her with disgust so much that she would just forget about it.

Natalie indeed flinched at the disgusting sight, stomping away in sheer annoyance. Dan melted in relief. Operation Disgust Natalie So She Would Forget It was a success. Phew. She didn't notice. She didn't notice him blush at the sight of her radiance, her beauty, her pulchritudinous elegance…whatever that big word meant. Oh, bah, the important thing was that she didn't notice.

Maybe.

* * *

_London, England  
Present day_

_Ian Cobra is a slimy little jerk_ , Dan thought, walking to the front porch of the Kabra manor with an umbrella as the rain raged on.

That was an immature remark, yes. But Dan had always been immature.

Dan had taken Saladin with him on the walk. The self-proclaimed Master of Jiujutsu had been repeating the words _slimy little jerk_ inside his head for a while now, thinking that it was not-so nice of that snake to send him off back to Kabra mansion and shiver in the rain. He had an umbrella, yes, but it was hardly even helpful in this raging storm. Ian had requested him to get his forgotten suitcase on the porch of the said mansion in exchange for a brand new GameStationX3 (GSX3 for short)—a brutal, X-rated videogame dripping of the awesomesauce of violence that Amy had banned Dan from playing.

Of course Dan had happily agreed to do the task (even if it was requested by a Cobra), because who could resist GSX3? Now, though, he was starting to regret it. While his other companions were warm and cosy inside this café called Twilight Coffee, he was shivering outside in the rain.

The young Madrigal wondered…how in Gideon could Ian possibly forget bringing his suitcase with him? The clothes inside that dreaded suitcase was the Lucian's sole reason for flying across the Atlantic Ocean, so it was rather odd. Well, Ian _had_ been acting a bit weirdly since they found him running in the middle of the grey streets, as if desperately chasing someone.

Chasing _something_ , in the middle of the savage rain, _without_ an umbrella.

That wasn't the Ian Kabra Dan knew. Ian Kabra was a sensitive British slime who can't even let a single bead of raindrop touch his ridiculous designer shoes—and not someone who fancies sloshing his feet on rainwater as the storm raged, just like how they found him earlier. Also, Ian was acting a bit strangely when he said that _they_ stole a photo from him or something, with that angry expression on his face as if someone had infuriated him, considering the fact that he was all alone out there.

And when Ian told them that he'd been chasing a thief down the street where there's basically no one around, Dan's instincts were piqued, thinking that something was hugely wrong with this highly-respected Lucian.

Seeing Ian Kabra that way was… eccentric.

Wow. Dan's English teacher would be puh-roud.

Anyway, as Dan dismissed that matter, he took up the steps on the Kabra manor's porch, having been told by Ian to go get his suitcase on this very spot. Dan only agreed to do it because the offer was just too exclusive. Amy would _never_ let him get his hands on a GSX3, even if they had a ton of money to buy it.

The only thing Dan didn't like about this bargain is the hard work itself. That's why he kept chanting _slimy little jerk_ like a mantra inside his head. But he thought he'd better get this done immediately so he could get his prize. So when he spotted Ian's suitcase, he happily ran to it and lifted it up. But, suddenly, it snapped open at the rash, improper handling—and all of Ian's clothes flew to the air. Dan groaned, and stuffed them back to the pathetic suitcase not caring whatsoever if Ian would be angry about this.

He grabbed a variety of Armani suits, Armani polo shirts, Armani slacks, Armani ties, and plenty other Armastuffo doodads. Dan jadedly sighed when he spotted the last of the clothes, and when his fingers touched the said last garment, he felt some little chains sticking out from under it. Curiously, Dan seized the clothing away to see what was under it, expecting to see a dead centipede to use it to scare Cobra.

But, he was surprised to see the simple silver-chain bracelet with a locked, heart-shaped locker attached to it. Dan's eyes widened as he took a painful look on the initials engraved on the locker, the centipede-idea vanishing into the air.

_NK._

* * *

_Twilight Coffee Café_

Ian stared down at his plain, ordinary glass of water. At any normal time, he would've sued the waitress who even dared bring the mighty Ian Kabra a horrid glass of _tap_ water for heaven's sake, then stomping out onto the streets dialling for his attorney's number to complain about the restaurant not having distilled Alpine spring water, all the while ignoring the manager who pled for him to cancel the call.

But he did nothing of those now. He just stared at the glass of water without really looking at it, his mind wandering blankly while the heat of the café and the chatting buzz of the people were ignored. Behind Ian was the window pane where showers of rain drizzled down from the glass. He was surrounded by his talking and laughing cousins—Jonah, Phoenix, Hamilton, and Nellie, minus Dan, who was still outside—slapping themselves on the back and poking each other in the ribs while they laughed about fart jokes.

Civilized.

Legs crossed and eyes nonchalant, Ian peered onto the reflection of himself on the glass of water. Staring at his own amber eyes made him hurt on the inside, as they are so much identical to Natalie's.

_Natalie…_

When the entrance door of the café opened, a chime of bells tingled; a cold wind from the outside blew to the inside and made Ian feel cold.

He sneezed. Okay, so he was still half-drenched from being in the rain outside, even after drying himself with a towel that the Twilight Coffee staff offered him. He inwardly cursed. Dan better come here shortly with his suitcase of clothes or Ian will soon catch a cold.

"Hey." The nose-ringed nanny took a pause from talking with the others. Oh. Nellie was talking to Ian.

"What?" he said, snappiness instinctively kicking in.

"You okay, kiddo?"

The young Lucian's response was curt. "Don't address me 'kiddo', Nellie."

A flash of hurt crossed the former au pair's eyes before it turned into sourness then became sulky. "Geez, Cobra," she started, interjecting a little humour to lighten his always-tense mood. "Can't you be a little less hot-headed?"

Ian knew that Nellie's light language was an attempt to cover the hurt from her eyes. He knew so, because Nellie slowly inched away from him after that. Well. Whatever Ian did or say, he always ended up hurting someone unintentionally. He guessed that the Vesper blood of his mother was just really in him.

He looked at his reflection on the glass of water. He…well…he never really felt like he belonged anywhere.

He cleared his throat. "Nellie—"

But his voice was not loud enough for anyone to notice him, and besides he was already cut off by a waitress.

"May I get your orders?" she asked in an all-too familiar voice.

Ian's blood grew cold. He froze as he stared at the waitress.

The olive skin, the long, sleek, cascading black hair, the calm, unruffled posture, the elegant position of her candle-like fingers—they were just too painfully familiar. And the owner of those sharp, golden eyes that glowed like melted amber was undeniably in the person of…

N… _Natalie_?

For Ian, time seemed to stop. He, the waitress, and the grandfather clock at the far-off distance of the café were what Ian could only recognize as everything else around him dissolved into an incomprehensible painting of mixing colours. The noises and voices of everyone else were drowned out by the echoing loudness of the ticking clock.

_Tick…_

_Tock._

Ian looked at the nametag of the waitress. It was... _Urd_. Urd…what a peculiar name.

_Tick…_

_Tock._

What is this? An illusion? A dream? A vision of some ridiculous sort?

_Tick…_

Urd slowly raised a hand, where a thin string from her finger fell gracefully down.

_Tock._

At the end of the string, a brilliant, red ruby was hanging onto it, swinging back and forth, like a pendulum.

_Tick…_

And in front of him, memories suddenly flashed through his mind, the scenes playing in front of him, as if he was one with them, living it.

_Tock._

* * *

"Ian," she pondered, tapping her chin. "Do you prefer meat or salmon?"

"Ian," she cheered, running to him. "Congratulations on the polo match!"

"Ian," she growled, looking at him scornfully. "How DARE you ruin my shoes!"

"Ian," she started, curious, and pointed at a name on the book. "Who is Gideon Cahill?"

"Ian!" she shrieked, as she was hanging onto Ian to not fall off the building twenty stories down. "I'm slipping, I'm slipping!"

"Ian," she said, fidgeting her fingers. "Mother…she is changing…"

"Ian," she whispered, shadows on her eyes. "I'm scared."

"Ian," she murmured, not wanting him to go to America. "Don't leave me alone…"

"Ian…may I…may I sleep in your room?" she asked, hugging tightly her white pillow. "P…please?"

"Ian," she sobbed, snivelling on her five-thousand count Egyptian kerchief. "Even our own relatives hate us!"

"Ian!" she cried, and she ran to him, not caring about his shocked expression as she hugged him even tighter, ever closer, not wanting him separated from her ever again. "You're safe!"

"Ian…" she sighed, the name coming out like heaven. "I've missed you so much!"

_Tick…_

" _Natalie, no!"_

He tried to run, to shout, to tell her to get out of the way and that it was fatally dangerous, but no, _no_ , his feet were planted firmly onto the ground, forbidding him from moving, and his throat constricted so tight by some unexplainably frightening force—fear, panic, uncertainty, as if not wanting him to give him the chance to warn her, to _save_ her. But his willpower for her to live is not enough—by a cruel twist of fate, in the end, he was too late to stop her from getting zapped to her death, the sound of that deathly machine a bludgeoning menace to his ears as it electrocuted its victim, the sparks flowing out as if smirking cruelly at the cold, corporeal masterpiece he was making out of her.

Then, when the machine was done doing its merciless job, she fell to the ground, limp.

And he had done nothing about it.

"Na…Natalie… _Natalie_ …"

He could utter nothing else but that one name, that one painful name that meant so much to him, whom he cared so much about—now just a lifeless form that lay on the ground, dead. He felt warm tears filling up in his eyes as he stood there, completely still, ignoring all the blur of the war between the Cahills and the Vespers, his body numbed by the impact of the reality that hit him square on the face like a thick, block of ice. And then he ran to her, blinking away the tears that clouded his vision, not wanting to believe the cruel truth that fate was forcing him to swallow, keeping on muttering and muttering her name in a delusional trance. But he could do nothing. She lay in his arms, a cold corpse.

"Natalie… _please_ …keep it together…I—!"

Tock.

" _Ian 'The Oblivious' Kabra!"_

By the voice of Dan Cahill—who apparently had returned already from his rainy trek—Ian was woken up to reality as he tore his eyes from his swirling reflection on the glass of water. When he looked up to see his cousins, he found them giving him odd stares.

"Um." The waitress cleared her throat. "Your order, sir?"

When he observed the waitress, no, she didn't look like Natalie. Her nametag read _Maria_.

He stood up from his chair with a pound on the table. He needed to know who…who _Urd_ was. "Where is Urd?"

Perhaps his voice had been too loud because he gained a few stares from the rest of the customers, his distant family giving him puzzled looks.

Maria cocked her head to the side. "…sir?"

"Dude." Jonah gave his Lucian cousin a playful pat on the shoulder and urged him to sit down—he didn't like the stares they were getting, which might just reveal his concealed identity as the famous rapper Jonah Wizard. He securely put a hand onto the cap on his head, fearing that it might suddenly get blown by the wind any second now if he didn't do so. Yes, there wasn't any wind inside the restaurant, but one cannot be too paranoid. "What's up all of a su—"

"Urd," Ian confirmed, looking straight at Maria, shrugging Jonah's hand off. "A waitress named Urd from your staff. I need to see her."

Pause. Several eyebrows were raised, either looking funny at Ian or appearing concerned. But then the girl finally spoke.

"We don't have any girl named Urd, sir."

* * *

_Boston, Massachusetts_

_My big brother is just so immature._

That's what Atticus Rosenbloom had been thinking about for the last few hours. Ever since the Cahill gang arrived from London, Jake wouldn't stop glaring at Ian and gloating triumphantly whenever he gets Amy to talk to him. And the chaos just built up inside of him when Amy assigned their rooms for all the Cahills' temporary stay at the mansion, announcing that Ian's room would be next to _hers_.

Jake was incredibly irate on this one, but Amy reasoned that it was her Great Uncle Fiske who was really behind this. In actuality, Fiske had chosen the rooms for them randomly by a game of darts. After all, the Cahils' temporary stay would only be for a duration of one week, a time span enough to soothe the Cahill teens' nerves from…well…Cahill life.

But, Jake couldn't seem to understand the meaning of the word 'coincidental'. He's thinking that maybe Amy _intended_ it for her room to be next to Ian's, while Jake's would be located two floors under. And now, Jake's assuming that maybe Amy had this crush on Ian _again_ , what with the fact that everyone knew about their history in Korea.

Amy just kept defending herself from her pinheaded puerile boyfriend by using Fiske as a shield, trying to make her uncle explain it to Jake. Fiske desperately tried to explain to him that he randomly chose the rooms in which Cahill would stay in which; and that everything is final and irrevocable. That way it would be fair for everyone.

 _Is this how the lovesick think?_ Atticus scoffed, sending a puff of steam into the cold night air. He was wearing a jacket while he strolled in the Cahill cemetery, which was just behind the mansion. _I mean, what's his problem? Jealous perhaps?_

But he couldn't see why Jake should ever be jealous of Ian. Besides, Atticus doesn't even see the said Lucian within Amy's 15-meter radius these days. Or…maybe Jake was afraid that Ian would steal his girlfriend from him? Well, Amy's attention _had_ been centred on Ian lately, considering the fact that she was worried that he'd commit suicide or something out of extreme…depression, what with the Vesper incident and all. But, other than that, Atticus couldn't see any chemical romance between Ian and Amy. Zero. Nada. Zilch.

So, really, he couldn't see why Jake should ever be jealous of Ian.

 _Great_. Atticus shook his head. Why was he even thinking about these sorts of things? And since when had love, of all things, been his expertise? He's the famed _Atticus Rosenbloom_ , for Isis' sake. It's better to leave that lovesick puppy of a brother of his alone. It's not Atticus' business, anyway.

It was also the main reason while he came out of the mansion and into this graveyard—which is the quietest place in the Cahill property—because the Cahill mansion just spelled chaos and total pandemonium, with Dan pranking people all around. Boy, was Amy _pissed_ when she accidentally stepped over a nylon string onto the floor to signal an incoming water balloon (but instead filled with grease) to splatter all over onto her face. The prank was meant for Hamilton, but the setup was pretty clever and everyone laughed because of it. Amy had banned Dan from touching the videogame controller for a week and one could just imagine Dan's hysterical " _Whaaaaat_?! A whole _week_?"

Atticus sighed as he kicked a garden stone, which was wet from all the raining earlier. It was fun being in the mansion and all, but sometimes a person had to get tired of all of the chaos. Eh, nothing less from the Cahills. But, suddenly, some sort of noise, a shifting of feet, perhaps, interrupted his silent mooning. Atticus looked up, and he saw someone whom he never expected to see.

Ian Kabra.

He was kneeling on the ground on his right knee, blank eyes staring at the name of a new gravestone. As Atticus silently walked to him, he realized that it was the gravestone of Natalie Kabra, Ian's younger sister who had valiantly fought and took active force against the Vespers. Although he never knew Natalie at all, and even though their first meeting had been kind of awkward what with the British girl snapping at him and all, Atticus' heart went out for Ian in pity. He himself could never imagine life without his older brother Jake—the older Rosenbloom had been everything for Atticus, since their mother died and their father being away all the time.

Ian had lately been taciturn and introverted, distancing himself from the world ever since the Vesper war.

Ever since…he lost her.

"Hello, Ian," Atticus greeted quietly, coming up from behind him.

Ian did not answer.

Atticus kneeled down next to him—a small gesture that he hoped would help a little. After a few more seconds of silence of staring at the tombstone, he said, "Natalie is a beautiful name, isn't? In actuality, her name meant 'rebirth'—"

The Rosenbloom stopped when he felt his companion wince. Now Atticus felt like slapping himself on the forehead. Who talked about _rebirth_ when they're surrounded by the _dead_? He had meant for it to come out as a gentle fact, not as a mocking statement—but Atticus had always been like that, throwing random facts at whenever the scene called out for it. Now he regretted talking in the first place, just standing there stupidly.

Silence weighed on them heavily after several moments. Then, in a voice barely a murmur, Ian whispered out, "Why are you here?"

The child prodigy shrugged. "In actuality, I just came to escape the hullabaloo inside the mansion."

As if a cue, Jonah shrieked from a distance: _"For realz, Hamburger?!"_

Atticus imagined the rapper tearing out his own head as he saw the high score being replaced by a new one.

Ian sighed as his masks fell off, rubbing his face exhaustedly. It was only then when Atticus could see the tiredness from his eyes, the anarchic disorder of all that he'd been through. His mask of steady and calm demeanour dissipated into the air.

"The atmosphere inside the mansion is quite tiring. And this paranoia won't stop bothering me, thinking that Dan's annoyingly obstreperous pranks would come behind me any minute." Then Ian gave him a knowing look. " _And_ your immature brother."

Atticus chuckled, thinking that the paranoia thing was his attempt at humour. Well, if the word 'Dan' is included in a sentence, expect a mouthful of insanity. But about the 'immature brother' part…

"Oh. Sorry if my brother annoys you."

The Englishman scowled as he stood up and stared at the mansion, which emitted a vivid orange light from here afar. From out here, both boys could hear faint shouts and pop music blaring from within, but Dan's tiringly cliché line of "Die, zombies, _DIE_!" was as loud as a sonic boom. It was quickly followed by Amy's "I _told_ you, not a finger on the controller!"

"Say," Ian started conversationally after moments of pause. "Your elder brother Jake is like a savage, squawking little lizard."

Despite himself, Atticus heated at the insult directed at his brother. But before he could speak, a loud voice belonging to Jake echoed throughout. " _I demand a_ REMATCH _, Hamilton!_ "

It looks like Hamilton's succeeding in putting out all of the high scores.

Atticus pouted at Ian. Ian's face turned to the closest he'd ever come to a smile.

As they settled in silence in a few more seconds, Ian turned away from Atticus, the briefest of smiles on his face quickly being replaced by a look of yearning. In a voice so quiet Atticus had to strain his hearing to catch the inaudible words, Ian murmured, as if lost in a trance, "For a moment there…you reminded me of Natalie."

Natalie always pouted over the smallest of matters that she found frustrating, even if she knew it increased the possibility of wrinkles.

Atticus smiled up to him, but Ian wasn't looking his way. He was looking strangely…at a tree?

This lasted for several seconds. It felt like Ian was not in the world of reality.

"Hey…" the young Guardian began, arching an eyebrow to Ian. The Kabra's amber eyes were a bit wider than usual, and it scared Atticus a little. _Was he seeing something?_ Atticus took a good look at the tree Ian was staring at, but saw nothing special.

"Hey," Atticus said louder.

When Ian still didn't respond, Atticus finally tugged on his shirt, and said, voice louder this time, "Hey, Ian."

But no, Ian just stared right through space, a stupid look painted right onto his lifeless face. For Atticus, his blank expression looked almost scary that he wanted to back away in fright, wondering what was just happening to his companion. The pupils of his eyes were reduced to tiny pinpricks, and…and did he just see a flash of red glint across his amber irises in that very millisecond?

Atticus was about to say something when the banging of Nellie's frying pan almost woke up the dead. "DINNER!" the au pair was screaming. "Dinner, everyone!"

Atticus sighed at the ridiculousness of the Cahills at times. Nellie didn't have to shout so loudly; but he knew that loudness and partying was just a way for the Cahills to cover their individual, painful pasts. The Rosenbloom turned to the Lucian at his side, who, he noticed, was just starting to blink his eyes to reality, subtly looking around to his left and right as if wondering where he was. Atticus mentally made a note of this unusual reaction, shook his head, then tugged at Ian's sleeve.

"C'mon, we should go eat."

"Go ahead," Ian declined the offer, turning his back to him, seeming as if he had finally broken out of his rather…unusual state of trance. He still looked as if he was trying to recover from it, though, as Atticus noticed Ian holding his head as if from a headache. "I…prefer to stay here."

 _Stay_ here _, at the graveyard?_

ThenAtticus suddenly got the feeling that this happened to Ian and Natalie a lot of times before, when people just left them behind—seeing as Ian here acted as if staying behind when everyone was having fun at the dinner table was a normal occurrence for him. Of course, Ian and Natalie might've probably let that happen, because they knew that people didn't want hanging around with them anyway, what with their reputation as ruthless and cunning con artists. How did Ian live like this, being isolated and ignored and casted out into the darkness the whole time? How did the Kabra siblings ever get the image of being the bad guys, despite choosing to be on the good side? Why can't the other Cahills see that Ian was trying hard to become good, even though it could've been so easy for him to have joined his Mother and the Vespers?

Atticus would not let this happen. His half-brother, Jake, had always been scorned by people because of him being an illegitimate child. Jake, at the time, felt devastated and hurt, but Atticus didn't want his half-brother to feel that way. So, he made Jake feel like he was a real part of the Rosenbloom family, like he was real brother to him.

And Atticus was going to do the same thing to Ian.

He ran to him, and pulled his hand to drag him to the mansion for dinner. At first, Ian was startled, trying to draw his arm away from Atticus—but the latter stubbornly said,

"You're coming, Ian, and that's final."


	3. The Flower Petal

Jake Rosenbloom was staring at Ian like he was an enemy or something.

The Cahills are gathered on the large dinner table, which was brimming with foods hot out of the oven. Even though Fiske was out for some Madrigal business in Kenya promising his return tomorrow morning, the family was almost complete, from the brawny Holt siblings to the Starling triplets, to the famous Wizards and the wonder Rosenblooms, to the lone Kabra and the Gomez girl, down to the Cahill siblings. Oh, and the always-forgotten Egyptian Mau, Saladin. Jake could not honestly believe that the cat had its own chair on the table…

But that didn't change the fact that Jake was staring at Ian like he was an enemy or something.

He _was_.

It was because _Ian_ had been in Amy's mind all _week_ , and Jake was growing more and more annoyed as Amy was like, "Ian _this_ " and "Ian _that_ ", worrying that Cobra might commit suicide or something ridiculous like that because of his dead sister, Natalie. Jake just wanted to yell at him, "Why don't you cry me a river, build yourself a bridge, and get over it, Cobra? Your sister's _dead_ , and killing yourself won't do anything! So shoo from my girlfriend!"

Huh. Wasn't that heartless. But that's reality, and he'd have to accept reality. You can't change it, you can't stop it from happening, and there is nothing you can do about it. That's just…just the way life is.

Jake didn't know if Ian was doing this on the purpose of annoying him and getting _his Amy_ away from him, and if it was, then Ian sure was a good actor. Lately, he'd been acting like he was so depressed as if the weight of the world was literally pressing his shoulders down, like the weight was unbearably unbearable for him to carry, giving off this melancholic aura that would affect anyone who dared try to come close to him. That Cobra's melancholic attitude made his Amy— _his_ Amy—stare at him worriedly every five seconds or so, and the attention that Ian was getting from _his_ girlfriend annoyed Jake to the bone.

So Jake just glared at Kabra while he shoved a blob of meat into his mouth.

* * *

Ian did _not_ know what Rosenbloom's problem was.

The twit had been staring at him like he had firearms in his pocket—of course Ian had, but no one was supposed to know about that—and that he was intending to kill or something. How Ian wished that the crystal chandelier above would suddenly shake and fall directly onto Jake's pathetically pathetic head. His stares were gradually getting onto his nerves already—why wouldn't the Rosenbloom just drop it? What _is_ his issue in the first place, anyway? But Ian decided to just shrug it off and ignore him; Rosenbloom will get tired of glaring at him like that eventually.

Ian quietly put his head onto his hand and looked away as he ignored his food, still feeling that Rosenbloom's stare at him. The noise of the Cahills surrounding him reached his ears, but Ian remained as lifeless as…well, as usual.

"Dinner is yum!" Dan bubbled out.

"Yeah, man," Jonah agreed, the golden chains around his neck clattering as he ate. "Who cooked this?"

"Nellie and Amy!" Reagan and Madison answered in unison, and, laughing, they fist-bumped for having their same thoughts being blurted out at the same time. "They're the best chefs!" And they laughed again.

"Awww, Reagan and Madison, thanks!" Nellie said, taking the compliments warmly. "And in fact, Amy was a great chef. I always knew she inherited that talent from me."

Sinead cracked up. "Amy could do this herself." She passed the gravy to Ned, who was sitting next to her. "In fact, this is pretty impressive for a first time!"

 _So it was Amy who cooked this._ Ian took one look at his plate and took a delicate spoonful of the caviar. Ian tasted the food critically in his mouth. Huh. The food was surprisingly good for a peasant; it could probably even pass his first-class standards.

Emphasis on 'probably'.

"Well, I must say," Ian joined in, eyes judiciously observing a spoonful of food. "You need to buy your own kitchen and harness your culinary flair."

He could see Jake's eyes narrowing at him from across the table. Oh, really. Was it a bad thing every time Ian said something about Amy? The Lucian leader pitied that sad, strange little man. Well. It was not _his_ fault if Rosenbloom chose to repeatedly exhaust his energy over nothing.

"Thanks, everybody!" Amy said, taking one look at everyone in the room—but Ian noticed that she looked at _him_ a second longer. Ian arched an eyebrow at this. Jake probably noticed it too, because he was getting bright pink at the moment. "But really, you guys, I couldn't have done it without Nellie."

After that, the Cahills started talking to themselves with their own topics. Dan, Jonah, and Hamilton were in hysterics as they thought of a prank plan, Reagan and Madison wrestling over the gravy, Sinead and Nellie getting engrossed in stories of love life, Ned and Ted discussing about their videogame prototype, and Atticus and Phoenix starting to become friends as they discussed about ancient relics and the art of writing pop music.

Ian groaned inwardly when he heard Dan's voice calling out to him from the background, yelling, "You still owe me my v-game loot in case you forgot, Kabra!" which successfully earned him a reprimand from Amy about not shouting over the table. Ugh. That pathetic peasant wouldn't stop bothering him about it and bugged him nonstop while they flew from London to get here to Boston. He couldn't understand why that GSX3 even bothered him. Had he been the Ian Kabra he was before, he would have threatened to slice Daniel's throat and have that devil of an Egyptian Mau mistake it for red snapper, but now, he wasn't so sure. A voice in the back of his head told him that he must live up to his bargain. Having a conscience was such a nuisance. Now Ian had to worry about buying for some little rodent's stupid videogame.

Jake and Amy were quiet as they sat next to each other, while Ian just as silently ate across them.

Jake thought that he should insert a comment about Amy's cooking skills, too, like everybody else had. So he started—

"Sooo, Ames, you cooked all this marvellous food."

Amy's tinkling laugh was music to his ears—to Jake's and to Ian's. "Jake, it was Nellie who cooked," Amy explained. "I only helped partly."

Jake decided to tease her more. "You know, you're being too—"

"Modest," Ian finished for him, as he placed his crystal glass of water down. "Aren't we now, Amy?"

Jake glared at him, but Ian's eyes were closed as he classily picked up his fork from the side of his plate. When the Kabra opened his eyes at him, he flashed Jake a smirk and a knowing wink. The Rosenbloom took his gaze to the Madrigal girl beside him, wondering what that stupid wink was all about, and—wait.

 _Wait_.

Was that a blush on Amy's cheeks?

Jake tightened his teeth. _How dare Ian make Amy blush like that?_

He cleared his throat. _So this is a battle, then._ Because, no, Jake would never back away from a challenge and miss the chance of humiliating this Kabra—victory was going to be _his_.

"Hey, Ames," he started casually, knifing down the meat on his plate. "What book would you want me to buy you for our _date_ tomorrow?" He made sure to enunciate every single letter of the magic word.

The sound of a dropping spoon was immediately heard. It was Jake's turn to smirk at his rival.

Amy looked confused. "Um…date?" she sputtered, completely innocent on the matter. "I didn't know we're supposed to have a da—"

 _Oh no_ , Jake thought. Amy was supposed to go with his plan, not go against it. So the Rosenbloom forced a chuckle, saying, "Did you forget? I have a surprise for you tomorrow on our date, remember?" Jake put his arm behind Amy and placed his hand on her waist, pulling her closer to him.

Across, Ian was eyeing Jake with an unreadable glare; Jake smirked at him once more, just to provoke him. And to make the snake go wild inside that Cobra, Jake pulled Amy even closer to him, staring at Amy's confused green eyes which were probably wondering what was happening. "We can stroll down the park like the happy couple we are, sweetheart."

Amy was startled at the sudden closeness between her and her boyfriend, and she also probably felt Ian's impassive stare at the two of them. And besides, Amy honestly didn't know what Jake was talking about. "U-um…really?" she spluttered. "But I-I didn't remember having a schedule with you for tomorrow, Jake…in fact, Uncle Fiske saved the whole day tomorrow for a family game—"

Jake, reddening, was inwardly embarrassed as his scheme was being revealed to the Kabra across. Okay, now he realized that he hadn't thought this through.

"Ah, so I see," Ian said, his calm demeanour returning to him. "It appears as if you've invented the date story on the spot, Jake."

The red stain on Jake's face was drained as he suddenly blanched, pale as snow. "No I didn't!" he seethed, teeth gritted.

He hated losing. Especially to Kabra.

Amy groaned—she suspected that this was going to happen if you place Jake and Ian across each other on the table. But Fiske gave her strict orders to do this—her uncle probably thought that the two would start being friends with each other. "You guys—"

Ian's eyes were so sharp they probably bore permanent holes into Jake's eyeballs. "Then why doesn't Amy know about this so-called 'date'?"

Jake paused, the gears in his head spinning frantically as he searched for an answer. Oh, rats. "Because—because she's too busy she almost forgot!" he spluttered in defence.

Ian crossed his arms over his chest. "Too busy that you can't even get her to notice you?"

"No!"

Okay, that one seriously hit a nerve that even Jake couldn't deny. Amy _had_ been a lot busy being a Madrigal leader that getting her attention these days was impossibly difficult. But, when Jake knew about Amy's attention being centred to Ian nowadays, was he jealous. But of course Jake would never admit to himself that he was jealous of a scumbag.

Ian's reply was indifferent as he observed a piece of lettuce leaf from the vegetable salad on his plate. "Is this desperateness I see, Rosenbloom?"

 _Desperateness?_ Jake wanted to yell so loud. _Desperateness for_ what _?_

Desperateness to get Amy's attention back to him?

"Wh-what do you mean?" was Jake's pathetic comeback.

He couldn't believe this. How did this end up with this? Jake couldn't believe that Ian was reading his inner feelings about Amy like a transparent book, even if he never really revealed any of his hurt feelings to anyone. He never told anyone that he was desperate to get Amy's full eyes back to him and away from Madrigal business. This Lucian was slick and definitely sick, and Jake hated the fact that Cobra was telling this in front of him while examining a piece of lettuce leaf.

"Alright, alright—break it up, you two." Amy was pushing Jake's shoulders back so that he wouldn't be so near to tearing up Ian's face. "Shake hands. I said shake hands, Ian and Jake." After a few seconds, the two engaged in a glowering war—and Ian was definitely winning. He was, after all, the Lucian here. Amy frowned. "Why aren't you two shaking hands?"

Ian sighed, obediently holding out his hand to Jake. Well, he had to stop his enjoyment before it got out of hand. "In behalf of Amy's request, can we do this quickly?"

Slowly, Jake vehemently stood up from his chair to tower menacingly over his snotty British rival, and by now everyone on the table had already turned their confused gazes at them. In no wise would Jake ever shake hands with a Kabra.

He wouldn't.

"I'd _never_ , you rotten little snaky orphan."

Jonah awkwardly curled his lips inside his mouth, not wanting to gasp aloud for fear of shattering the suddenly fragile air. Everyone else pretended like they were busy with their food with Sinead trying to look busy with her napkin, even though Jake knew that they were all ears. The following heavy silence was unbearable.

Sure, the Cahills threw names at each other _all_ the time, but this one was pretty offensive already—especially since the wounds were still so fresh.

"Oh, Jake…" was Atticus' horrified mutter. Everyone knew that Ian nowadays was very, well, _sensitive_ about family matter. Being called an 'orphan' when the mere word already made everything hard for him…if they already weren't.

Jake seemed to realize this just now, his eyes widening, and he looked taken aback of his own actions when he saw Amy's horrified face at him. The he turned to Ian. "Oh no—no, _no_ , Ian, I didn't mean—"

Ian's calm, cool, collected, indifferent closed eyes looked almost scary, as if he'd heard nothing unpleasant at all. He gently pleated his napkin into neat folds before he coolly stood up from his chair, with a calm so deadly he almost looked like he'd lost it.

"Well done," he mockingly commended, his accent thickening just a bit more by the disdainful stiffness that controlled it. "I hope you're pleased of your victory."

The slamming door of the dining hall left the chandelier above Jake shaking violently.

Very violently.

* * *

Ian stomped down the halls. Just…just _hideously scandalous._

No, replace that; make it _atrocious_.

No, _horrid_.

No, _horrendous_.

No— _sickening_!

Ian clenched his hands into fists so hard they turned white. That Rosenbloom was just so… _sickening_.

Jake Rosenbloom was so sickening that Ian banged the door of his room so hard it would never want to open ever again.

* * *

_Huh. Door slamming much?_

That was what Jake thought when his eyes blinked after the door of dining hall had been slammed shut close. He gulped, and took one look at the other Cahills on the dining table looking up at him either disgustedly or apprehensively. His brother, Atticus, had his head bowing down at his plate with his fists clenched, and Dan had this look of narrowed green eyes and hands crossed all over his chest.

The Cahills may not have been very close acquaintances with Ian Kabra, but they certainly were not approving of Jake's immature actions—they all knew of Ian's mindlessness these days, how he seemed so lifeless around everyone surrounding him and in everything he did, and if this sort of depression took over him, then they might just lose one of their cousins again because of suicide. And they can't have that anymore, they just can't.

So the rest of them just looked plainly horrified.

Jake bit his lip, slowly descending back to his chair. "You guys—you can't—you can't _seriously_ —"

The sound of the scraping chair against the marble floor was heard as Amy voicelessly stood up.

Instinctively, Jake stood back up too. "No, Amy, let _me_ get him—"

Amy just walked across the room with a clear command. "Stay where you are."

Jake ran to get her. "But I—"

Amy whirled around to face her boyfriend and stomped her foot on the ground so loud that it echoed off the room two times.

Jake immediately stopped in his tracks. The Cahills were quiet for a second, imitating Jonah from earlier as they awkwardly hid their lips inside their mouths.

The Madrigal repeated her firm, authoritative words. "Stay. Where. You are."

Jake gulped, Amy's intensified tone hitting him hard in the gut. "O-Okay—"

But she was already out and running, furiously biting her lip as she forced back uncontrolled tears.

* * *

Her face was red when she was already far from the dining room, strands of hair sticking to her teary wet face upon knowing that she was safely out of earshot. Hearing her own boyfriend say that in front of her…

"… _you rotten little snaky orphan."_

It's like Jake wasn't even aware of her feelings. It's like wasn't even the tiniest bit mindful of blood that had been shed with the war for the world between the Cahills and the Vespers. It's like he loathed Amy because she was an orphan. Like he looked _upon_ orphans—like he didn't even _care_.

But _he_ …he would understand her if he was here. Amy was sure that Evan would understand her if he was here.

…but…

…the only problem was…

…he wasn't. He wasn't here.

He wasn't.

Evan Tolliver just… _wasn't_.

He was dead.

That was why she freely let her tears fall, and knocked three times onto Ian's bedroom door. If she let Ian alone inside here, she might have just left Ian with thoughts of suicide—and Amy might not hesitate in doing so, as well.

* * *

Ian stared at his phone and scowled as he failed to reach a signal. He'd tried calling the British Airlines for about twenty times now, but the other line was simply just blank. As he pranced around in his room, he held his phone to his ear one last time, and when he heard an electronic female voice say 'The receiver could not be reached. Please try again later', the Lucian outrageously threw his luxuriously expensive cell phone onto the floor where it smashed into smithereens.

Breathing heavily out of rage, Ian inwardly cursed down at his utterly useless phone. But just then, lightning thunderously cracked sharply across the black, heavily-clouded sky, temporarily sending an eerie light of glistening shadows flickering tauntingly into the dark room. And, not a second after, rain started to fall. They fell so gracefully as they collided against the earth, as if enticing Ian to fall with them, as well, to just let it go, to just...accept…

Ian clenched his fists and jerked his head away from staring out the window.

Patience. Just…patience. Ian tried to retard the pace of his rapid heartbeat by taking in deep breaths as he exhaustedly held his head, eyes closed. Patience. Calmness. He kept chanting it inside his mind like a mantra—patience had always been the key to a clear head.

Once he got himself back, he took another deep, calming breath, gaining back his usual Lucian demeanour. He bent down to pick up his broken cell phone, but, as he did it, a flash of strong, golden light sparked against his amber eyes. Arching an eyebrow, he stood back up and ignored his fallen cell phone, walking to the direction of the golden glint instead. As he pushed a carton box away, he saw his golden mirror, lying innocently right there, on the floor.

Ian cringed before picking it up from the dusty floor, but that was just him. Nevertheless he picked it up from the floor, wondering how in Gideon Cahill's name it could have gotten in there. But as he peered into his reflection, he saw…

 _Natalie_?

He blinked once. Twice. Then peered at the reflection again.

His own eyes stared back at him, the reflection of his amber-eyed sister gone. Ian shook his head.

Seriously. That had been one of the countless times this day that he thought he had seen something he was certain he would never see again, no matter how much he wanted to. Of all times, why _now_ would he start getting delusional, why _now_ would his mind choose to escape out of his shell and wander to things that could be, that should be, as if fate had been reversed? Why now, just when he needed to focus to keep everything in check, would his mind start imagining things not worth his time?

It was almost crazy to say it this way, but his mind was just going…insane these past few hours, and not in the comical way.

It was frightening.

What was _happening_ to him?

He only needed one solution to this. He needed herbal tea. That's right—herbal tea. He just realized that he hadn't had one in the past three days. He could just hope that that was the only reason that he was seeing these delusions that he hoped weren't real—these images of…of Natalie that kept on niggling him, trying to get on his nerves. Obviously his own eyes were giving him images he didn't want to get reminded of.

A sudden series of knocks onto his door forced him to reality.

Ian steeled himself. _Don't answer the door. Be patient. Whoever that is, he or she will go away eventually._

Another series of three knocks echoed throughout his dark, sinister room. Ian kept his calm, trying not to burst with anger and shout at whoever is at the door to shut up and go away. He didn't want to see anyone at the moment. He just closed his eyes, standing at the corner of the room, hands evenly at his side. He hoped that his silence was sending the message enough— _he did_ **not** _want visitors_. Whoever is at the door would eventually go away anyway, and he was not in the mood to talk to anyone right now.

 _Knock, knock, knock_. The rapping on the door was even louder now, as if more forceful and fraught. But Ian was _not_ going to open the door.

As another set of persistent pounds onto the door, Ian heard a familiar voice plead out to him—

"Please, Ian, I…I know you're in there." It was Amy, and Ian was hardly shocked. If that Madrigal was anything, she would be persistent—and rather unreasonably determined at anything she did. "Just…just let me in."

Ian scoffed.

Pointless.

She knocked another three times. "Ian, I—" but stopped herself. Ian narrowed his eyes. There was something in her voice that he solely noticed…her voice was quite shaky, although barely even noticeable, as if…as if she had been…

… _crying_?

"I know you won't probably even want me talking out here, Ian. I…I just wanted to apologize." Pause, as if she was hesitant at doing this. But she went on, anyway. "I'm really sorry about Jake."

Sorry.

The word annoyingly rang out in Ian's ears.

_Sorry?_

She's _sorry_ about Jake?

Fine, but Ian jolly well was far beyond _disgusted_ at that blasted imbecilic peasant.

"And I know you're really angry at Jake. I am, too. But it's not because he destroyed the family dinner, it's because…" Amy's voice started to tighten. Ian turned around to face his door, where Amy's melancholic voice was coming from. "It's because…because…because he…"

The Madrigal leader had obvious difficulty at words for the moment, but Ian knew the reason. It was just then when he understood—it was just then when Ian understood why she could've been crying. How could have he been so stupid? Amy was crying _because_ of Jake's hurtful words that tore an old wound back to bleed again.

"… _you rotten little orphan."_

Ian's jaw tensed up. _Jake_. That stupid Rosenbloom was the worst living creature ever created with a human brain.

Yes, the words were true. Firstly, Amy _was_ an orphan, but she had pretty much moved on from that until now that Jake's words hit a soft spot. _Jake was Amy's boyfriend_ , a person who was supposed to be sensitive of her feelings. Hearing her boyfriend spit that out right in front of her face probably must have been odious, even for her. And, secondly, Ian was a 'new' orphan, meaning that his wounds are still open and fresh and still struggling to heal—but Jake just worsened it by cutting it even wider open.

Yes, the words _were_ the truth. But if Jake wielded this truth as a cold, stabbing sword, then the truth could cut down flesh; it could dig deep into a heart and cause it to bleed.

Just like what he had just done to the two of them.

Ian walked up to his door, where he could hear Amy's hard crying. He didn't know what to do—Lucians were never really…trained on comforting anyone else but their own, selfish needs. How was he supposed to bring comfort to a peasant? Usually, whenever Natalie was sad, Ian would be able to coax her out of her bedroom and then they'd go shopping at a luxurious mall, letting her buy all the clothes and jewellery she found to her liking, to her heart's content. He wanted to chuckle at the bittersweet memory, it was the sort of brother-sister bonding that he'd taken for granted, that he would never be able to experience from now on.

But he knew that Amy was not a person to be comforted by the abundance of clothes, by a showering of gifts— she was so unlike Natalie in many different ways that it was almost difficult for Ian to figure her out in every turn, just like now. Amy was the kind of person who…who became comforted by… _sentimental_ things, instead of material ones.

And he didn't even know the point of all this—why would Amy cry at his door about her being an orphan, if it was mainly Ian's very own mother who robbed her of her parents?

It was not the first time that Ian felt helpless at trying to grasp Amy's way of thinking. She was just…different.

"…I…I came here because I…" Amy was sobbing uncontrollably now. Ian hesitantly raised his hand to reach for the doorknob. Was he going to let her in or not?

"I…I…you see…y-you're not the only one who lost someone you love, Ian. I lost Evan, too. I came here because I…I just wanted someone who could…understand me. I thought that you'd just be the person who could."

Ian was aghast of this fact so much he took a long step back.

She thought that _he_ could understand _her_?

"I…I also came because I just figured you wanted someone with you who could…understand you right now, too. But…but if you think no one could ever understand you, just remember that I…I…" She took in a shaky breath.

"My door would always be open for you, Ian."

Ian was rendered speechless.

Knowing that she hadn't even gotten a single response from her locked-in Lucian friend, Amy said, timidly, "I…hope you have a good night." Then he heard her footsteps reverberate down the hall as she sobbed mutedly in her own hands.

Ian clenched his fists. What kind of a person was he? Amy understood everything how he felt, and she was willing to stand by him even under dire circumstances—but he wouldn't even _open_ his door for her?

He hastily seized the doorknob and swung the door open, but by then the only sight he caught was Amy's shining red hair as she disappeared down the hall, the incessant rain pounding heavily on the iron roofs.

* * *

_Several hours later_

At the sudden spark of lightning, Ian jerked up from his bed, breathing heavily from a nightmare. Realizing he was all safe, he sighed, and rubbed his face in exhaustion. He looked at the digital clock beside his bed, and saw in bright red digits the time 2: 07 am. He sat up and then stood from his bed, then grabbed his robe and immediately went downstairs.

As he flicked on the lights of the kitchen, he went to the refrigerator to gulp down a bottle of cold water. It wasn't like him to drink from bottles, and he had to admit it was perfectly _revolting_ , but they don't serve water from the Alps here in Boston.

He threw the pathetic empty plastic bottle down the trash. As he walked back to the doors of the kitchen where he could exit, he flicked off the switch for the lights. But before Ian could close the kitchen door, his eyes were hit by something he least expected.

A golden glint?

He opened the door wider for him to step into the interior of the kitchen again, and he walked to the dark corner where he had spotted that flashing glint. He knelt to pick it up and was aghast and left mystified as one question dominated his mind.

_How did this mirror get here?_

He didn't have a chance to answer. A small, chiming, feminine laugh suddenly entered the room that caused Ian to stand bolt upright, his attention no longer on his golden mirror. His instincts sparked with anticipation, activated due to an uncanny feeling that he suddenly wasn't alone. After seconds of silence, he just stood there, alert.

"Show yourself!" Ian demanded, the turned-off lights of the room turning dark shadows into even darker ones. But just then another giggle escaped from a girl's lips, and Ian caught her sinister silhouette dash outside another door. Determinedly, he followed, wondering all the way who this girl could be.

Her voice sounded strangely familiar…

He ran, following her soft, tinkling laugh that seemed strangely ethereal. As he reached the top of the long line of stairs, he was met by a large hallway of rooms stretching down the end of the extending corridor. The mahogany floor shone magnificently as ghostly silhouettes of the eerie candle lights on the sides illuminated this isolated part of the mansion. Ian suddenly felt this longing to see whoever that girl was, and he was resolute on doing just that.

As he silently walked down the long hallway of doors of unused rooms, he found one that was slightly opened. Immediately Ian knew that this was the room where the girl hid from him. As he opened the door to purposely surprise this strange 'girl'—in case all of this was a prank planned by Dan—he was taken aback to see a vaguely familiar thirteen-year-old girl with her back turned to him, her pale, auburn skin in contrast with her black, cascading hair.

She sat on the plush, velvety bed, her silhouettes multiplying across the room, as if surrounding Ian, trapping him in his place. Even a Lucian like him had to be terrified on these apparitions, but his wide eyes were only focused on the girl sitting on the bed, the realization of who this girl _could_ be dawning on him like the sun across the horizon.

Ian took another cautious step forward, his longing of seeing his sister again burning ferociously amidst the storm inside of him. In the quietest whisper he could ever muster, he murmured, guardedly but gently, "N-Natalie…is that…you?"

His shaking voice was so quiet that he couldn't even recognize it as his own.

As if as a response, the girl laughed again, and slowly turned to face Ian—and her striking, golden eyes seemed to melt soulfully like ambers afire. Ian took a long, horrified step back, but as 'Natalie' released a sad smile and whispered quiet, unintelligible words at him, she shattered, literally, into bursts of white flower petals floating into the air. Ian stood, stunned, standing stupidly amongst the flurry of white flower petals, as if a fountain of confetti had been just—

Ian suddenly bolted upright from his bed as a sudden spark of a giant lightning clashed through the night sky with a hollering thunder following after. He breathed heavily, and held his head into his hands in horror, the shock of having seen Natalie in his… _nightmare_ hitting him hard in the stomach. He looked at the digital clock beside him, which showed him the time—2: 07 am. Then, breathless and quickly, he opened the first compartment of his small bedside drawer and fumbled through the materials in it—and then heavily sighed with relief as he found the golden mirror, resting where it was supposed to be.

So that was all a dream, no need to worry about anything. All a dream…all a dream. Ian was just about to plop himself back onto the comforts of his pillow when his eyes suddenly landed onto the sheets that covered half of his body.

He saw a single piece of a white flower petal, resting right in the middle of the sheets that covered him.

…wide-eyed, Ian finally slumped down onto the pillow of his bed and stayed like that until sunrise.


	4. The Accursed Letter

_Boston, Massachusetts  
6: 57 am_

He coughed twice into a fisted hand after he had just gulped down a cough tablet, then immediately emptied up the glass of water in his hand before setting it on the smooth top of his wooden bedside drawer. He had a feeling he'd soon catch a cold, so he thought it better to take early caution by taking relief tablets. Ian was sitting up on his bed, already ready for the day's work. He had showered two hours ago and now he unblinkingly stared at the single white flower petal in his hand.

_Was the dream last night real?_

He shook his head, no, it can't be…it can't be. But whenever he thought like that, the other part of his mind would lash out a debate—then what did _this_ flower petal mean? No matter how much he tried to dig into the deepest recesses of his mind, he couldn't quite put the dainty fragile petal inside the first compartment of his bedside drawer, along where his golden mirror was resting. He couldn't dare risk the sanity of his eyes by sparing that golden mirror even just a glance.

_She shattered, literally, into bursts of white flower petals floating into the air. Ian stood, stunned, standing stupidly amongst the flurry of white flower petals, as if a fountain of confetti had been just been thrown into the air…_

He again coughed twice into the heel of his hand before he took the envelope beside him, which held the small sticker symbol of the black Cahill crest sealing it. He received the envelope about ten minutes ago, when he had refused Fiske's offer of coming downstairs to breakfast. It contained the letter about the family game that was about to happen this day, but Ian couldn't help grimacing just thinking about it.

Ever since he had touched this envelope, he felt his instincts ringing out wild. He felt that something was quite…wrong with this day.

He wasn't sure how or in what way—just… _wrong_.

_Dearest Cahills,_

_Today we will have a flag-hunting game, the purpose of which is for you to have a tighter bond. You all are divided into three groups with four to five members each. You,_ [Ian Kabra], _belong to Team_ [Artemis], _and your team's meeting place will be the_ [library, 3rd floor]. _Your team leader,_ [Amy Cahill], _will be waiting for you at 7:00 am flat. He/ She will discuss the game's mechanics. The winners of the game shall receive the respect of your other cousins as you prove your triumph, as well as a secret surprise from me._

_Uncle Fiske :)_

Apparently, Mr. Cahill had the Cahill matters resolved in Nairobi, Kenya and immediately found his time to arrange some sort of game for them to busy upon. Ian had to be impressed at the man's time management skills. He could tell that their Uncle Fiske enjoyed planning this game out for them—look at that smiling expression of creatively-arranged grammatical symbols people call a 'smiley' that Mr. Cahill had used beside his signature. Ian was left wondering about what prize Fiske was hiding for the winning team.

He folded the letter back to how it had once been and inserted it into the envelope. Then, he stood up. Apparently he needed to be in the library right now; it was about seven on the clock already. As he walked outside the door, he thought that his instincts merely needed a cup of strong black tea—because, no, nothing could go wrong on such a beautiful day of competition, just like the old days.

Right?

* * *

Amy was just waiting for her other team members to come, and she sat in the corner of the library in an armchair, a daily newspaper on the armrest. All the Cahills had just had breakfast, and she had gone straight to the library to wait while Jake and Atticus, her other team members, went to their rooms to get some of their things.

She just wondered why Ian hadn't even come down for breakfast.

But at the thought of him, Amy kept her eyes even more focused on the pages of an article, biting her lip while her face heated up. Her eyes towered over her newspaper, but she could not comprehend a word. She tried to drift her mind away from Ian by reading even more profusely, but when she read one line of a paragraph, she had to read it again from the beginning because all that entered her mind were gibberish letters that made no sense.

She couldn't understand what she was doing. This is what embarrassment does to a person.

Last night, she didn't know what happened. It all happened as what her mind told her to do. No, wait, that was the wrong way to put it—she was entirely _unconscious_ when she came up to Ian's room crying pointlessly last night. She didn't know why she was even crying in the first place, and she couldn't remember the words she had spoken. But what she _could_ remember was this:

" _I lost Evan, too._ _I came here because I…I just wanted someone who could…understand me. I thought that you'd just be the person who could."_

The redhead stared at her newspaper, struggling to keep her emotions intact. Ian probably thought she was the nuttiest person who ever lived after saying something so cheesy like that.

"Trying to glare a hole into the paper or something?" said a voice, and Amy looked up to see Atticus gently closing the library door, his one hand holding the same copy of Amy's daily news. He waved the newspaper in the air. "We have a very interesting article here. Did you see it?"

Amy blushed, and looked down at her newspaper. "Yeah…about that mysterious thievery downtown?"

The young Rosenbloom 'pfft'-ed. "What's so interesting about a bunch of stupid bank robbery?" he moaned. "Thievery happens _all_ the time." Then he walked up to her, and pointed at a headline on her newspaper. "I was talking about _this_."

/

**INTERNATIONAL NEWS**

Mystery Syndrome: Strange Coincidences?  
by Adolfo Aladin

LONDON, ENGLAND—A strange mental disease coined by the people of London as the 'Mystery Syndrome' had attacked said city, killing four seemingly unconnected people with still two victims suffering from the said disease. Though not yet considered by the Cambridge University doctors and scholars as something needed to be alarmed of, Londoners affirm that the illness had to be eradicated at once.

Karl Miranda, 47, Portuguese tourist; Lakshmi Yamano, 38, Indian tourist; RJ M. Calvenriala, 14, Filipino tourist; and Linda Witherspoon, 25, native Londoner, listed by order of date of death, are the first four victims of the Mystery Syndrome. This phenomenon had been suspected at first by the doctors as random incidents of death with rational reasons behind, but suspicions arose as their dates of death are proved consecutive, one day after the other.

As further investigation was done by some amateur detectives, led by a certain Dr Sky Lancaster, the family of each victim strangely claimed that their victimized family member had been acting oddly before their deaths, saying that they started having a mental breakdown; to enumerate, these are (1) crying without reason, (2) hallucinations, (3) paranoia, and (4) schizophrenia. Surprisingly still, the cause and theme of their mental breakdown seem to be the same—which is depression from past memories.

Akira Niyama, 9, Japanese, and Liana Andrés, 16, a French tourist, fifth and sixth victims of the Mystery Syndrome, currently have the mentioned symptoms; the latter has gone missing until yesterday. Yesterday morning in London, England, at Wiltshire Street in front of Twilight Coffee, Andrés was found by a thirteen-year-old American boy (he refused to give his name) who is said to have accidentally found her 'running and crying pointlessly in the streets'. Tina Andrés, Liana's mother, thanked the unnamed boy for the service.

Andrés is now being carefully monitored at Cambridge University Hospital and the medical staff had closely been checking on her vital statuses, which are currently stable. Dr. Jinjing Liu states: "We will try our best to prevent one more person die from the Mystery Syndrome. But, mystery being as it is, the cause of the syndrome is still unknown, so more likely than not…we do not know what we are looking for here."

Dr Lira Pendergrass, a friend of Dr Lancaster, along with two other amateur private detectives, had started a research regarding the connections that the six victims may have in an attempt to find the root of the disease. Unfortunately, the medical history of the six people didn't have any similarities whatsoever, disproving the theory that the disease might be a side effect of a previous disease.

But, going outside the medical perspective, their research had strangely found out that all the six victims had visited an auction in downtown London in six, consecutive days, also strangely buying the same kind of ancient mirrors from the auction—which Dr Pendergrass considers as potentially useless information.

Interestingly, though, it was all exactly three days that after they have bought their mirrors from the auction that they have died their deaths. Investigators are still trying to find out if this has a connection, but for now they consider it a mere coincidence.

If you find your family member or anyone you know who has the mentioned symptoms above, please contact the number below.

/

"Well…" Amy leaned back on her chair as she finished reading. "That _is_ strange…"

Atticus rolled up his newspaper. "I know, right? I mean, Mystery Syndrome? You'd think they would've thought of something that sounds more scientific. The name they gave the disease sounds pretty ancient instead, something that no one here could understand. Mystery indeed." The boy's eyes lighted up at just the thought. Amy smiled; she knew he was always so easily fascinated by any mysterious ancient thing.

The door opened and revealed Jake wearing a blue sweater. He smiled when his eyes met Amy's. "Oh, hey there, you guys!" Then, upon receiving only their silent looks, his shoulders slumped. "Don't tell me you're still angry at me, Ames. Please."

Amy innocently looked at her newspaper. "Say sorry to him. Okay? Just like I told you."

"What the—you're still dwelling about last night? I didn't say whatever I said on purpose! I didn't know he was so sensitive about those kinds of matters. And do I really have to apologize to him? Couldn't it wait tomorrow?"

Atticus sighed. "Nope. It's better if we resolved these matters immediately."

"Why is the world so against me?" Jake dramatically looked up the ceiling and released a giant moan. "Why should I apologize for something I didn't mean to—ow!"

He was suddenly thrust forward as the swinging door hit his back. Ian Kabra walked in and mockingly regarded the Rosenbloom, who was caught holding his bottom. "Goodness gracious. Should I _apologize_ for that, my charming friend?"

Flushing, the Rosenbloom stood back up straight. "You _better_ —"

"I don't think so," Ian cut off, still walking forward. "Why should I apologize for something I never meant to do? It is your fault that _you_ were blocking the doorway like how a used tissue paper would clog an insalubrious toilet gutter."

For a second Jake looked like he wanted to kill. But then Amy stood up between them. Inwardly she was frustrated at her Great Uncle Fiske. Why did he have to put these bipolar rivals in the same team—in _her_ team? It's like Uncle Fiske is against her. It's like the whole world is against _her_.

"Good morning, everyone! I welcome you to Team Artemis, and I'm appointed as your team leader." She summoned a large, competitive smile for the sake of her team's tense morale. "Now, who's ready to kick the other teams butts?"

Jake was quick to change his mood. He punched his fist into his left palm. "Alright!"

"The goal of this game is to gather all four flags from different parts of the Attleboro town and race to Uncle Fiske's room. The team who wins first gets a prize," Amy immediately explained. "There are two other competing teams—Team Apollo and Team Aphrodite. We must move and think fast if we want to win against them." There was a beam in her eyes, and Ian had to smile at the angelic sight. She was relishing the competitive feeling they all felt back at the Clue Hunt—only now, there was no need for killing their cousins off. So of course this was bound to be fun for her. Save for the fact of his and Jake's lack of… _acquaintanceship_ , of course.

"Sounds like a scavenger hunt," Jake pointed out. "Cool."

"Attleboro is a pretty large town," Atticus observed. "How are we going to locate these four flags?"

"You see," the female leader supplied, "each team is given a different riddle, which directs to the location of their color-coded flags—ours is red. We need to solve the riddle, obviously." Amy produced a piece of parchment paper from her pocket, unfolding it. Oh, the efforts Fiske did just to force the Cahill cousins together. It was almost amusing and touching at the same time. "This is our riddle."

o0o

_For Team Artemis  
_ _Idunna's apples are craved for by the youth;  
Heimdall stands at the end of Bifrost's route;  
Valkyries sing war songs along the pounding of Mjollnir;  
All these can be watched from the Spring of Hvelgelmir._

o0o

Ian knit his brows, a ghost of a smile appearing in his face. Memories of him and Natalie fighting over the answer for a riddle flashed behind his eyes, and at that, he finally freely let himself to smile. He gave Amy a meaningful look as he took the paper from her hand, his long fingers softly brushing against hers. He gave the riddle a long, contemplative look, and he looked like he was deeply thinking…but then he suddenly pulled out a handkerchief from his breast pocket and turned away to cough into it.

Amy kneeled down to pick up the parchment paper that he had unconsciously dropped onto the floor, and she stepped forward, worried. "Ian?"

Ian, his eyes a bit watery from the labour of coughing, quickly put back his handkerchief where it belonged to and nodded stiffly at Amy as if nothing had just happened. "Yes?"

She slowly reached out a hand to him, as if to touch his forehead. "I heard you spent the day out yesterday in the rain," she said. "You're okay, right?"

"Oh, look at the time!" Jake suddenly said, and took Amy's hand to point it at the clock on the wall. "La-di-da, we still have to kick the other teams' butts, right? Then why don't we all get to work?"

Amy swatted Jake's hand away from her, her eyes an annoyed pair of scolding green. "Jake…"

He brought up his hands innocently as if he suddenly didn't know what was going on. "What?"

"Ian here," Amy drawled on patiently, "might be sick. I just wanted to make sure he's okay. He doesn't have to go with us if he's not feeling well—"

Jake's eyes lit up at this suggestion as if by a magic lightbulb. "Ah, right! Ian's not well, is he? Then too bad, Cobra, you're not gonna have to go with us if you don't want to catch a cold, okay?" Jake grabbed Ian by the shoulder and started pushing him out through the door. "Stay in bed, Ian, ta-ta! Just leave the rest of the work to _us_ —"

"You insubordinate fool!" Ian squalled in a rough, scratchy voice, and pushed Jake away from him with the most strength he could muster at the moment. "Will you just _stop_ this ridiculous playacting? I'm—I'm _fine,_ and you don't have to—have to—" But then, suddenly, Ian was forced to stop as something scratched at his throat; he coughed into a fist, his cheeks a bit sallow, with Amy and Atticus exchanging worried looks as they watched their friend struggle through his apparent illness. Jake merely rolled his eyes at this, believing that Ian was only acting like this to gain Amy's attention and all that blah. Ian, however, was in genuine toil, though he tried to hide it when he turned back to Amy with a voice obviously strained to sound just like normal.

"I'm fine," he repeated for their sake, not trusting himself with a long sentence or else he will fall into a fit again. "Now then. What have we got to do, Amy?"

Amy spared him one last look, which Ian only returned with a challenging one, as if even daring her to say that she was worried about him, when he obviously didn't want any of it. She inwardly debated whether or not she should give him her utmost concern, but then ultimately decided it best not to rile him up even more. Maybe it was just a simple cough that was bound to just go away after a day or two, anyway.

"Alright," Amy said, along with a weary sigh. "Back to the scavenger hunt, then." She looked down at the parchment paper in her hands and summoned a little smile. "It reminds me of the clue hunt."

Before anyone else could reply to that statement, Atticus interjected. "Well, I'm not sure why, but it reminds me of _The Avengers_. You know, the famous Marvel movie?"

The gears behind Ian's head began spinning as he once again took hold of the parchment paper from Amy. "Idun, Heimdall, Valkyries, and Hvelgelmir," he read with caution of the unusual pronunciation. "What a mouthful. The terms sound a bit off."

Jake snatched the paper from Ian's hand and scrunched up his eyes at the unfamiliar words. "Maybe they're anagrams. Let's try scrambling the letters a bit."

"Pointless," said Ian, ever the nonchalant sceptic. "I didn't come up with anything."

They stayed silent there for a couple of minutes, thinking hard.

Jake finally shrugged, apparently surrendering as he looked at the strange terms. "They're Greek to me. Atticus?"

His thinking machine of a brother was still…er, thinking. "They're Scandinavian to me."

" _Scandinavian_?" his older brother laughed. Jake knew that Atticus knew a bunch of dead languages, from Latin to Sanskrit to Egyptian hieroglyphics and ancient Sumerian, but certainly not Scandinavian. "Since when did you know Scandinavian, Att?"

He shrugged. "I just recognize them as Scandinavian."

Jake sighed, seeing no point as why in the world Atticus saw them as _Scandinavian_ , of all things. "If this flag-hunting game turns out to be an unsolvable stunt, then I'm going to have to _hammer_ your uncle for making everything so difficult—why do you Cahills always have to speak in stupid codes?"

At this, Atticus' eyes sharpened. "Jake!"

"What?" Did Atticus _seriously_ think that Jake was at it again, hurting the people around him by mere words? "Here we go again—of course I was just kidding! You Cahills made my brother so exposed to blood and gore and melodramatic villains singing for world domination that you just _literally_ forget what jokes are for."

"No, hammer! You said hammer, right?" said Atticus excitedly. "That's why I was reminded of _The Avengers—_ Thor, the Norse _or_ Scandinavian god of thunder, owns the magic _hammer_ Mjollnir. And the word 'Mjollnir' is mentioned in the riddle, obviously; which means that those other strange nomenclatures—Hvelgelmir, Heimdall, Valkyries—fall under Scandinavian mythology as well." Atticus ran to a shelf and searched for a book.

"And I know we'll find the answers," the child prodigy drew out a book from the shelf, "if we rely on this book."

On the book's spine was engraved with fancy, a little-too-overdone spidery writing: _The Ancient Folktales of Norse Mythology_.

* * *

"The riddle said 'Idunna's apples are craved for by the youth…'" Ian contemplated. Then, ever the gentleman, he turned sharply away to cough twice into a kerchief, Amy worriedly looking at him as he slaved away in his hacking labour. His face was tinted a striven red when he then faced the group once again. Jake rolled his eyes at him, and Ian arched an eyebrow at this—what _was_ Rosenbloom's problem, anyway? Ian cleared his throat to make way for a voice that he hoped was steady enough, deciding to not pay any more attention to that blockhead. "So. Continuing. We have just learned that Idunna is the Scandinavian goddess of youth," he relayed. "Now what?"

"We need to relate the clues—Idunna—to the Attleboro town map." Amy was studying the Google Maps on her Apple iOS. "What else do we know about Idunna, Atticus?"

As the four of them walked slowly down the long hallway which led to the mansion's front door, Atticus was holding the big book in both of his hands, his glasses so thick he could see through the next century. "It also says here that she is the keeper of the golden apples of youth," he responded, eyes quickly scanning the book's contents as his index finger trailed it. "All the gods in Asgard, their world, come for her apples so that they could stay young and immortal."

"Golden apples of youth…" Ian said thoughtfully. "Perhaps a place here in Attleboro where there are plenty of young people? And apples?"

"I'm thinking of the Apple Tree Park downtown," Atticus provided, "but it's crammed with smooching adults and the elderly instead."

Amy flashed the youngster a look that said, _Thinking like that is not proper, Atticus_.

Jake thought hard. "Maybe an electronic store?" he suggested. But just then, Ian and Jake took a quick glance at Amy's _Apple_ iOS. She was still busy studying the map, but the two men separately came to a conclusion that their first flag might be located at an Apple Electronic Store, a new place in town that never fails to be crowded with young people.

"I know the answer," the two of them said in unison. When Kabra and Rosenbloom abruptly met eyes, they quickly turned away from each other. When Amy and Atticus' attention centred on them, Jake took the liberty of bragging. He stepped forward while Ian pretended to look unaffected by looking away.

"The modern youth is becoming dependable of gadgets these days, am I right?" Jake explained. "So I think our first flag must be in an Apple Electronic Store, where 'Idunna's apples are craved for by the youth'. I'm sure I'm right."

Amy actually smiled at him. "We have to check it out, then. One flag down, and three more to—"

There was a loud crackle of thunder from the outside, cutting her off. Just then, the black and dark cumulonimbus clouds which threatened rain just a minute ago suddenly drifted away and were quickly replaced by a smiling sun. Ian looked up at the high window to see the blue sky, and the twittering of birds could be distinctly heard.

Whoa.

That was fast.

"The rain…it stopped…"

Strange. There was just a heavy downpour a minute ago.

Atticus smiled as if it was good news. For a genius, one would think he would find this phenomenon odd, but even he didn't feel a bit affected, his childishness shining through. "Then we should get going!"

Jake followed his brother, who was running for the light of the door—which led to the sunny outside world. "Come on, gang! Let's get those flags and win!"

The two of them disappeared as the bright light from outside engulfed the laughing Rosenblooms. Amy shrugged, and started to run too. But she felt Ian's hand touch hers, as if to stop her from getting away. The Madrigal found this odd.

"Um…Ian? Why are you holding my—"

The look on his amber eyes was chaotic, unsure. "Don't walk out there."

Amy immediately felt something wrong. "Huh? What's the matter, Ian?"

He let go of her hand. "It's rather uncanny. But I feel like something dangerous is going to happen if we go outside that particular door—"

Amy giggled, and she took his hand, pulling him to the sunshine against his will, against his mind, against his _instincts_ —his instincts that screamed out loud, that _rang_ out loud, not for him to get out of here. "Don't be so afraid of the sun, Ian!"

"Wait! No, Amy—"

Too late. He was outside the mansion already, his eyes suddenly engulfed by the blinding white light—like a moth headed to its doom.

* * *

Nervously, Amy tapped on the touch screen of her gadget. "So…" she said, uncertainly, the other three young men following her lead. "It says here on the map that the Apple Store is right about…here." The redhead took a step to the right, and when she saw the place, she gasped.

"This is impossible…" Atticus gravely said.

The four of them just took in the surroundings in shocked silence. The market, the unsold fruits, and some vegetable stands occupied the sidewalk. They'd already been here nine times ago. Were they walking around in circles all this time?

"Amy…we just came here all over again." Jake went up and touched her shoulder. "We've been walking around town for hours now."

"I…I don't understand…" Amy shook her phone. "My phone is brand new. Maybe I'm just the worst navigator around…"

Ian walked forward. "Something's wrong." His instincts tingled, the very same feeling he felt earlier when he received Fiske's letter. "I couldn't decipher what this is…"

"O-of course nothing's wrong!" Amy forced out a laugh. "The sun is shining, the sky's blue, and the place is peaceful—what could be wrong with that?"

Ian did not falter. " _That_ is my point, love. Don't tell me you haven't noticed. The whole place _is_ peaceful." He gestured at the marketplace that lied in front of them. Then, he shook his head. "No. Not peaceful." He looked at the empty road ahead of him. "Eerily quiet."

Jake seemed to tense up when Ian said 'love', but it also might have been the weight of what Ian had just said. It took them a few seconds to finally let that sink in.

"You're…right…" Atticus observed, putting his glasses up the bridge of his nose. The whole place was too quiet. "Maybe we were just too absorbed in the riddle…"

"Where are all the people?" The Lucian continued. "Where are all the customers, the market sellers? Do you see one single car parked around?" Ian looked down at his feet, down at the dry ground. "Think, everyone. There's not even one sign that it had been raining overnight. Something is going on." He looked up at them all. "Let us head back to the mansion immediately."

And, now led by Ian, all four of them ran out of the market.

Ian's feet barely touched the floor as he ran, his contemplative face dark in the shadows. Amy _lives_ here in Attleboro. Why would she even need to follow a map in the first place? And if Ian hadn't pointed out the abnormalities of this place, wouldn't the others have noticed it themselves? Was he the only one who _really_ felt that something was wrong?

In the back of his mind, he could feel his instincts scolding him for not taking heed of their warnings. And it was bad enough that he was regretting it.

* * *

A town of illusion.

It is a form of a black curse from an ancient Oaboalah text, the book Sefer Hazor, which humans used long ago to study sorcery.

The infamous English sorcerer, Esmeralda Godfrey, a witch who lived back in the late 1500s, used the cabalistic curses inscribed in the Sefer Hazor herself. She used it to curse people who she disliked—trapping them inside a town of illusion. A town of illusion, the place where her unfortunate victims starved to death, never tasting the joys of precious reality again.

' _Thou become trapped inside thy own mind, and the people around thou are all but merely fantastical personas created by thy own imagination. Everything that thou see happening is unreal. Everything.'_ Esmeralda Godfrey had written these very lines onto the brittle margins of the Sefer Hazor book with a spidery handwriting typical of a deranged witch, the tiny flames of the candle lights beside her dancing a ghostly terpsichore that seemed to light the old bony features of her face like an inferno as she wrote the words down. _'Thou need to wake up to stop it, but that is nearly inconceivable. Thou have to feel a blast of an emotion so intense that it shall overrule everything, from the colour of the sky to the touch of the wind, so that thou would remember thy existence and thou shall wake up once again in the real world. It is the only way that the victim would burst through the accursed bubble of the black spell. If not…then the unfortunate victim's very existence is trapped forever in this immortal realm until he dies like a wilted flower, never to be seen again.'_

Everyone from 14th century England thought that Esmeralda Godfrey was a lunatic. A deranged maniac. A schizophrenic witch who babbled about the black arts and the end of the world. At first, they all only laughed at her, but in time, they grew tired of these ridiculous legends, because they were nothing more than what they actually were—just fantastical, utterly untrue legends created by the zaniness of imagination. The only real reason that she hadn't been executed by the then current King Marcosias of England for being an accursed witch was that Esmeralda had actually been the King's personal court soothsayer, and he had trusted her foretellings which often came true.

Esmeralda Godfrey is said to have no religion—instead, legend has it, that she is a mistress of the black arts. Her family had passed down to her the book of the Sefer Hazor and she passionately had herself drunk on the dark practices written on its yellowed pages, spending her entire life as if running high with a mental fever. Her most infamous spell was the As'fnea er T'fclor, spell words that translated into Town of Illusion. It was said that this was the same spell that had killed King Marcosias. Fortunately enough, she was the last person ever known to use that curse on anyone. Her seven children had made sure to burn the accursed pages.

The Sefer Hazor—it was never heard of again.

Or…maybe not?

* * *

Ian's feet slid across the concrete ground as he turned to the right corner. He was panting from exertion, and with his acutely ill body he felt the exhaustion seem to rip his body apart to the point that his lungs felt like exploding. He could hear his teammates breathe rapidly as well from behind him. But it didn't help that the sight before them was the still maledicted scene that it was. Ian, Jake, Amy, and Atticus, the entirety of Team Artemis, all gasped as their tired minds were blown seeing the familiar place before them once more.

It was the empty market.

Again.

Silence settled for several moments of apparent shock. Ian was the first to speak the only manageable mutter he could muster as of the moment.

"How… _come_ …"

Jake held Atticus' hand protectively. Amy walked forward to put a hand onto Ian's shoulder, a helpless attempt to comfort him when the odds were impossible.

Ian clenched his fists.

So this was what his cryptic instincts were telling him earlier.

 _I told you, Ian,_ said that scolding inner voice.

_I told you._


	5. The Mind's Trickeries

Ian Kabra was _missing_.

"Where in the world could you be?" asked Amy aloud, her hand pushing her frizzy hair back. The rest of her teammates—Atticus and Jake—are also separately searching for him around town, with apparently no success. Amy was already holding the four flags required for them to bring back to the mansion in order to win Fiske's scavenger hunt game, but they would be disqualified if the team isn't complete.

No. This isn't about being qualified to win Uncle Fiske's game. It's about finding Ian—wherever he is. Yes, Ian is a grown-up teenager who knows where he's going, knows what he's doing, and knows how to do something when something is amiss. Ian was a consented teenager who could go off on his own and would then, in turn, know how to get back to the mansion without holding someone else's hand.

So then if that's the case, what made her so worried that he might get lost, like she was the mother and him a lost child in a mall? Answer: It is because he is acting with…how will she put this?…unconventional behaviour. Like schizophrenically psychotic idiosyncrasy. It might sound like psychobabble to anyone else's ears, but what else could she say? That was the best way in which she could put it—Ian was apparently _deluded_.

First, back when they were still planning on what to do back in the mansion, Ian said that the rain had stopped, when, actually, it was not even raining. Second, Ian had held Amy's hand unexpectedly and told her not to go out the door because he said he feels that 'something dangerous is going to happen', just right after Jake pointed out that their third flag might be located somewhere in the children's playground. And, third, when Amy finally decided to ask him what was wrong, Ian's answer was this—

"Rosenbloom!"

And then suddenly Ian had run away, and Amy had no idea where he's gone. She was left to thinking that he was mentally deranged, schizophrenic, out of his own mind—well, with that series of proofs of… _unconventional_ behaviour, what _else_ was Amy supposed to think of him?

* * *

_Time and place?_

_Unknown._

"Um…guys?" asked Amy, her voice shivering. Ian snapped out of his trance, looked at Amy, and later on shook his head. _Do not be ridiculous. Of course we are going to get out of here._

" _Ian_ ," Amy stressed for the third time, her face now level with his, a worried look in her eyes, staring into him as if _he_ was the one to blame for all this confusing disaster. "What is it? Do you have any idea where we should go now?"

He didn't. He obviously didn't. He had desperately wanted to point out that _they_ were the ones who should be blamed for all of this, not him, but no matter how much stress he put in his pointed glares, apparently no one was just able to get it. Even Jake looked like he wanted to strangle Ian as if he were the one who brought them into this mess.

Ian sighed defeatedly.

"We would just have to find our way back to the mansion," he said, patiently, pushing her and Jake and even Atticus well out of his sphere. He needed to _focus_. That would probably be the only thing that would get them out of this eerie illusion once and for all. Wherever they were, they _had_ to find the way back to the mansion. It might be the only way that would snap this… _irrational_ town back into its rightful place in the world.

But no matter how much he tried to focus, how much he strived to lead his small group through creepily empty corridors and silent highway intersections, no progress was made. No one had a single clue where to go or where they were. They had been circling round and round this irrationally odd, _illusionary_ town for _hours_ now, and yet the process only repeated, time and time again: whenever they rounded that corner, or that one from behind them, or perhaps _this_ one at their side, they would always, always be back where they first came from—the quiet, empty, _eerie_ marketplace. It never failed. It happened every single time that it was starting to eat at his nerves until almost no sanity was left. Ian would define their condition as lost, and would prefer to resort to ask the people around them about the directions back to the manor, but that was another problem. There was not a single person around who could possibly point them out the right direction. Every time they opened the door of a house, they'd only find it empty. The appliances, the food, everything inside would be nicely arranged and taken care of, but there would be not a single person. It was as if everyone had just, well, _disappeared_.

It was not scary, exactly. A more correct term would be… _odd_. And the oddity of this was starting to make Ian wince every time he turned a corner, only to find another endless corridor of houses and apartments. Everything about this place was unsettlingly disturbing.

Ian was thinking this when he suddenly got distracted by the sound of a ticking clock. He stopped running, panting a little bit from the exhaustion, then looked up, suddenly curious of the time. But then he gasped at the sight before him.

The clock hung on the wall, upright. And it was all _wrong_. Its numbers were arranged backwards, written backwards, the second hand ticking _anti_ -clockwise. Each tick and tock produced a sinister sound that echoed all throughout the silent place, and rang inside Ian's ears. It was a disturbing mirror image of something that was once real, now flipped to reveal the uncanny reverse.

"Well, that's creepy," said Jake, who was slightly panting as well, and for a moment Ian thought that he referred to the backward clock; but when the Kabra looked, he realized that Jake was actually referring to the clouds above which formed a sinister letter C.

A letter C. The shape of an unsettling smile. Or a grin. As if the Cheshire cat from _Alice in Wonderland_.

Atticus gasped as well and he pointed a trembling finger at a moving cart, the wooden steering wheel moving by itself, the honk beeping as if to ask the foursome to give way for the invisible passenger.

"L…look at that," added Amy, and she pointed at the archway that soared from above them, the words _Welcome to Attleboro!_ written in a blood-red upside down.

Ian took a defensive step back, putting a hand in front of Amy as if to prevent her from stepping any further into danger.

It made no sense. Everything about this place made no sense.

It came to Ian that this might all be just a test from Fiske, but then, he also thought that having the whole town of Attleboro evacuated and reconstructed into a confusing, crisscrossing maze would be too elaborate a scheme for just a simple family scavenger hunt game. So Ian thought, no, that must not be it. If that were the case, then what a waste of riches and resources this was. No, Fiske was not that impractical, nor was he that extravagantly grand.

"Wait," Atticus uttered suddenly, interrupting Ian's clouded stream of consciousness. Silence surrounded the group as the three pairs of eyes focused on the young Rosenbloom, whose eyes and ears looked alert and perked.

"What is it?" Amy asked.

"I hear voices," he replied immediately, and, without warning, he suddenly dashed off.

"Wait, where?" Jake asked, and, by impulse, he raced after his running little brother. Behind him, Amy's footsteps resonated after his, as she said, "Atticus! Where are you going?"

"No—" Ian rasped out as he realized that his teammates were running away. He knew that their little group couldn't risk _not_ staying together—Atticus might get permanently lost in one of the corners and they wouldn't be able to find him anymore, not in this uncanny town of sinister trickery. "No—Jake, Atticus! _Amy!_ Don't go far or you will—"

Jake ignored the Kabra's calls. So did Amy as she followed Jake. Instead, the older Rosenbloom brother continued on running after Atticus and Amy after Jake, and when the said child prodigy turned to run off into a corner, Jake followed. But when _he_ turned right into that corner…

"Att? Atticus?" the elder Rosenbloom stood there, panting, confused, his voice sounding like Big Ben in the eerie silence and worry tinting it with fear. When Amy came up behind him, she looked a little puzzled at Jake's paleness—but when she stole a glance at the corridor where Atticus went into, she saw nothing but endless rows and rows of empty houses, which their team had already scoured for hours earlier, with no success of ever finding the Cahill mansion again. And Atticus could not be found anywhere.

He had disappeared.

After a moment of silence, Amy said, her voice trembling, "Wh…where is Atticus?" as if Jake had an answer for that.

As the Lucian behind the two of them watched from a few meters afar, Ian immediately knew by reading their faces that something bad had happened—and indeed when he had approached the two of them, he was met by the ominous news.

Atticus was gone.

' _It is all an illusion. Trickery.'_

Suddenly, a frosty, chilling wind lifted Ian's raven hair, and the cloudless, ice blue sky turned from a cool cobalt to a raging crimson. Ian looked at Amy and Jake, who had noticed the drastic change of temperature as well—the sudden, abnormal rise of heat, which continued to intensify, as an angry haze of red light enshrouded the heating atmosphere.

Amy looked frightened, and her emeralds locked into his ambers for a second—but suddenly their gazes from each other was torn, when a rumbling thunder of an intense earthquake passed by. The earthquake violently shook the ground and threw the entire world in complete and utter chaos in one furious jerk—the threesome crash landed against the floor, the streetlights sparked and cracked and died, the windows shattered and glass was splattered, and the top of the trees met the floor to summon up the dust that might have been as thick as the smoke from a forest fire.

' _You become trapped inside your own mind.'_

Coughing from the thick dust that had risen, Ian, Amy, and Jake's minds were all confused and discombobulated for a second, their reddened eyes squinting from the specks of dirt floating in the air. The dust started to settle a moment later, but unlike both Amy and Jake, who were trying to get onto their wobbly feet, Ian was still coughing—it was both laborious and absolutely, certainly painful to cough in the midst of all this, when his chest already felt like it was under the grip of a giant's iron hands, squeezing him until every last sap of life was drained from his form. And just when his mind was only starting to reassemble the lost pieces into a comprehensible picture once more, the dark clouds starting to part to give way for the sun's rays, suddenly, the meteor crashed—in a metaphorical sense, but it wouldn't have been too far from the truth either, because when he looked up, he saw something _falling_ towards him, and as its shadow became larger and larger as the object neared, Ian could do nothing but let his shocked eyes widen at the tremendous sight and _watch_.

A broken gigantic billboard structure. With showers of debris, both trivial and enormous, all plummeting their way towards a deathly crash-landing that would kill Ian for sure. He couldn't stand up—his feet felt too tired. He couldn't shout, the voice was trapped in his throat. He couldn't save himself either—how could he, when he hadn't been able to save Natalie back when she…she…

Ian shut his eyes tightly, prepared for the impact to shatter him into broken bones, bowed his head in a silent misery, and then—

" _Cobra, watch out!"_

The Lucian's vision and level of comprehension right now was slightly slurred, but he _did_ felt himself being yanked away from his deadly spot where he could have easily crashed into pieces by the gigantic billboard. When the billboard hit the ground, there was a loud crash, sending fragments of rubble and dirt clattering down the floor as a smoke of thick dust burst into an unwanted cloud. Ian coughed, tried to stand up. But then he realized what had happened, realized who had saved him, _who had pushed him out of the way just in time_ —that one person who he least expected that would go so far as to even sacrifice himself for him. So, in a gasp, he said—

"Rosenbloom!"

But it was a helpless situation, for Jake was already buried under the heaping pile of scrap and metal. And that gave Ian pause.

Was it possible…that someone like Jake _would_ want to save him?

' _The people around you are made-up personas by your own imagination.'_

Ian, breathless, scampered over to the fallen billboard, and Amy ran up to him and said, "Are you alright? Where is Jake? What…" Then, seeing the expression of culture shock on Ian's face, she paled.

The two of the remaining of Team Artemis's members heard from a distance the sound of rumble, the sound of collapsing buildings. And, indeed, the marketplace which had once been a marketplace burst into red flames, as if someone had lighted them. Ahead of them, the rows and rows and rows of houses crumpled one by one, like hundreds of house-sized dominoes in a demolition job, and the sound of demolished rocks and rubble and marble was growing louder, and louder, nearer by the second, faster, _faster_ , seeking to devour Ian and Amy once they reached the end of the line—

"Hurry, Amy, we need to get out of here." Ian instinctively grabbed Amy's hand. It was the only thing one can ever do in such a surreal world.

Hand in hand, Ian and Amy ran as fast as they could, away from the fires, away from the collapsing buildings, wanting to leave the chaos behind. But the chaos only seemed to follow them, as when the last house at the end of the villa crumpled to the ground in a groaning heap, it crashed mightily down on the ground, making a seemingly small and insignificant crack on the ground among many others. The crack crawled at first, then grew bigger, and was now practically chasing the two Cahills. Unfortunately it caught up to Amy, and when she accidentally stepped on the now-large crack, the crack opened wide, making her slip inside the pit. She squealed, her two hands holding on to the edge of the ditch. The echoing blackness below her readied itself to swallow her in its bottomless pit of darkness.

Ian stopped running and looked back. "Amy!"

"Ian!"

The Kabra scurried over to her, but when he reached, Amy had already fallen, helplessly screaming bloodcurdling shrieks that pierced through the hot, humid air. Ian's eyes widened, not believing anything that he had just witnessed.

"No...Amy… _Amy!_ "

But suddenly he felt something cold behind him pass by.

He whirled around to see nothing. As his eyes scoured the empty roads, there was silence for a moment, except for the roars of fires and collapsing buildings at a far-off distance. But then, he felt another cold _swoosh_ behind him again, this time accompanied by a tinkling, feminine laugh. The laugh was ethereal, and he knew he had heard it before. He had heard it before…

Last night.

Last night…which he couldn't even point if it was real or unreal.

Last night, when he _thought_ he saw Natalie and she had burst into a cloud of white flower petals.

Last night, when he _had_ seen Natalie.

Another cold whip of air behind him, then followed by a laugh that ringed of soulfulness. This time when he turned around, he saw her. Natalie, about a hundred steps away from him. Her black hair, her white dress, her pale skin. She seemed to whisper words at him, but with the noise all around, he couldn't hear her, couldn't even decipher a thing. But then, without warning, she suddenly turned her back to him, and ran, feet floating over the ground.

Curiosity and yearning sparked, and, forgetting the pit that led into utter darkness, Ian shot up and started running after Natalie, not with a feeling of desperation to _see_ her, but with a feeling of mystification on _why_ he was seeing her. People don't normally see the dead alive again. The logical part of his mind shot rapid-fire questions at him by which he himself had no answer, but the one question dominating above all was this:

_Are you out of your mind, Ian Kabra?_

" _Certainly_ ," Ian seethed to himself, teeth gritted. Certainly his own mind wasn't helping him, but he was afraid that the logical Ian Kabra was right—Ian _was_ out of his mind; which was ironic, because he couldn't even find an escape from all this.

As he ran after Natalie, her tinkling chimes of feminine laughter spread throughout the whole area, as if she was a gong in a vast, echoing chamber. Ian's thudding footsteps against the marble floor sounded as if they were drums playing intense ritual music in an ancient Indian chant. As he went farther away from the marketplace, the marble floor slowly changed from concrete…to bricks. Soft white marble to red, dusty bricks. Surprised of the transformation, he looked back, but was aghast to see an extending, long line of a narrow bridge made of red bricks instead of the marketplace it had once been. It stretched for endless miles, and when he turned around, the scenery was the same. And Natalie was no longer there.

Breathless, Ian stood there, frustratingly holding his head in his hands, his amber eyes confused, distorted, trapped in a chaotic paroxysm. Where _was_ he? Well, yes, he was in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of a long, bricked bridge that seemed to have no end, stretching thousands of miles beyond human perception. This bloody bricked bridge stood in the middle of a sea, the azure water of which reflecting an aurora of fiery orange fires across the vast emptiness. He had no idea how a marketplace turned like this.

Then he screamed, his loudest scream he had ever had in his whole life, bringing out all the anger he had felt, the sadness, the _pain_ he had gone through in his life full of hurt. Natalie was his life, his love, his family, his _only_. Now, this…this _illusion_ was toying with his emotions, rubbing it in his face that Natalie was _gone—_ by playing these stupid ethereal mirages in front of his eyes, mocking him.

Gone.

He released a deep breath, and looked up at the sky to try to calm himself down, calm his beasts of anguish deep inside him that threatened to rip off his body. When he looked up the sky, he noticed something strange—but he didn't know why. Suddenly, he realized why—it was the red sun, the glow of which was cool and warm, comforting and confusing. And, slowly, a glowing shadow grabbed a bite out of the sun. Like an eclipse.

But the difference was, the shadow was _glowing_ , with a golden glint. There was an ochre, iridescent glow on that shadow, which had now completely eclipsed the red sun and provided an orange glow, which made everything seem more surreal. The whole place was like a snow globe with no snow—it was as if a blazing fire had been trapped inside instead, the ghostly elements of molten gold scintillating unnaturally.

Like his golden mirror.

…his golden _mirror?_

"It has been a long time."

Ian whirled around, shocked by the realization that he was not alone. But he was more shocked when he saw who had been standing behind him—and it was like a cold slap of ice on his face. Ian took two trembling steps back, as if he'd just realized that this nightmare wasn't yet over.

"F… _Father_?"

Vikram Kabra, his amber eyes unreadable, walked forward to his son; he stopped walking when he was merely a foot away from Ian, who had stood there like a statue—frozen, confused, shocked. He refused to look up at his father, who was six inches taller than him.

They stood like that, unspeaking, unmoving, unfeeling. Ian clenched, unclenched, and clenched his fists. He didn't know how to feel. He didn't know _what_ to feel. Should he feel happy, now that his father was just at his reach? Loved, because Vikram had the love to even consider walking up to his son? Shocked for all he was worth? Angry? Tricked? Betrayed?

Disgusted?

Vikram was the first to speak, who released a breath he'd been holding. "It's me," he started, as if Ian wasn't aware enough of his disgusting presence.

When Vikram didn't receive any replies, he surprised Ian by saying something he never thought his father would.

"I…understand," the father said. "I know you don't want me here, but…" Vikram reluctantly held out a hand, which slowly reached to pat down Ian's head, ever so gently. "I am glad to see you again, my son."

Ian didn't move, although he was utterly disgusted at the loving touch he received from his cowardly father. No, it was _not_ loving, he reminded himself, because his father never knew how to love. Ian was disgusted when that rat called him 'son', as if _he'd_ been a father to him all through the years. He had the _gall_. The young Lucian may have grown up and lived his life with his parents there to support him all the time, but his parents were _not_ parenting—they were making Ian and Natalie their slaves as they trained them to be killers. It was so unlike Amy and Dan, who, even without their parents, had indulged in rivers of love they received from the people around them. Ian and Natalie didn't receive that kind of love. Ian firmly shut his eyes, refusing to give in to his angry, lashing emotions of hatred that would soon shred his mask. A cold, chilling wind seemed to mirror the young Kabra's cold thoughts, lifting the father and son's similar dark hair…

Vikram and Ian resembled each other a lot.

Ian slapped his father's hand away from caressing his head any longer. _No_ , he reminded himself, no, no, _no_ , he was _never_ like his father, he was _never_. Vikram looked offended for a moment, until Ian told him, the first words he had ever told his father since the past several years—

"Don't call me your son. You are not my father."

Vikram flinched, something he had never done before. "But I—"

"You _never_ _will_ be my father!" shouted Ian, his voice trembling with emotion, turning his back to Vikram just so he wouldn't see the tears that had now pricked at the edges of his eyes.

Silence. Then…

"I missed you so much, Ian. I…never wanted my life to end this way." The Lucian father sounded remorseful. "I did not want my family to end like this."

_An illusion. All an illusion._

Ian was unaffected, or tried not to be, his back still turned to his father. His eyes were shut tightly closed, his breathing was heavy and shaky, but he attempted to calm himself down, like a yoga student in meditation. His hair ruffling in the wind matched the serenity of the sparkling sea below, his fists by his side were trembling with emotion.

"Please." The hoarse, whispery word sounded like prayer on his lips. "Get me out of here. Get me out of here already."

' _You need to wake up to stop it.'_

"I can't live like this," continued Vikram. "I'm sorry, Ian, for all the things I have done to you. To Natalie. To our family."

Ian held himself emotions. "I don't want to be here any longer."

"I need you to forgive me," Vikram said, his voice teetering over a desperate edges if he hadn't heard Ian speak at all. "I found out that I can't continue living if my sins from you are holding me back. I am deeply sorry."

Ian's mind started ripping out of its own. _Illusion. All an illusion._

"Just…shut… _up_ …"

"I beg you to listen to me!"

That was the final drop that made the whole vessel run over in a tidal wave.

" _Listen?_ " he snapped, sharp amber eyes boring into his father's soul. "You made your own children your servants, did everything under your will, made us feel worthless, pathetic orphans rather than your own children—you were unaffected of your wife's imprisonment, left us desolate and alone, and were indifferent upon knowing of Na—Natalie's…Natalie's _passing_ , and you beg me to listen?" Ian laughed a bitter, mirthless laugh, his eyes empty, hollow, void of anything but of disgust. "Didn't you think that I have had enough?"

His swirling emotions inside of him were angry, like a storm on fire, and he could feel his own amber eyes moisten with tears. The mirror up in the sky took in Ian's emotions, making the wind swirl and it whipped a tornado, making a crumbling earthquake that shook the waters. Behind the young Kabra, waves were tossed and fires were initiated, the never-ending bridge behind him starting to collapse. All of it mirrored what he was feeling towards this…this cowardly _rat_ in front of him that had the stupid nerve to show up. But Ian was unaffected by it all—the only thing he did was turn his back to his father again and wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand.

After a minute of more chaos, Ian Kabra made a decision.

"I can't."

He can't forgive his father.

"What?" Vikram said.

"I…can't."

And he never will.

Roars were heard, the rumbling, black nimbus clouds storming above him.

"My son…"

All the suffering. The aloneness. The loveless 'parenting'.

And all the pain.

' _It has to be sudden. You have to feel a blast of an emotion._

Ian gathered his anger, his utter disgust, and the storm clouds corresponded by roaring with clashing bangs of thunders.

"I will _never_ forgive you!"

His vindictive shout was like a command to the clouds; immediately a giant spark of yellow lightning crashed just behind Ian, destroying the concrete bricks of the bridge, making it collapse in a giant outburst, taking Ian with the fall towards the glimmering ocean.

' _Emotion so intense that it would overrule everything else.'_

Ian felt numb. He knew he was falling towards his death, but his numbness blocked out all other things around him, making everything literally black and white, swallowing the oranges of the sea and the gold of the sky. Suddenly he wasn't falling towards the ocean anymore, because the ocean turned into a black pit of nothingness, the falling debris with him as stark as black and white. Before he closed his eyes to accept the fall, to _fall_ , just like a lonely raindrop who had given up, who had been given up by the sky, he saw something he never thought he would ever live to see.

Vikram jumped from the bridge and into thin air, reaching out his hand so that he could grab Ian's…so that they would fall, _together_ , as father and son. When Ian's hand came in contact with Vikram's, he felt…warmth. Sincerity. Regret and sorrow. And truth to all what he has said earlier. But then…

Ian slapped his father's hand off, the second time he did it. Vikram looked not only offended, but also stolen of his integrity as a father. The Lucian heir had his reasons on why he did _that_ —it was because he wanted to fall alone, rather than to fall with a traitor. He wanted to see the plain, stark truth as colourless as it may be, and not the honeyed words of falsehood. He wanted to evade the betrayals, to avoid being hurt once more, because that was sure to happen if he reunited with his ratty father. He did not want to be a slave, and live under his father's lies once again.

After all, this was all just an illusion.

An illusion where there are so many lies that you never know which the truth is anymore.

' _And then thou shall remember thy existence.'_

"Ian! _No!_ "

Ian looked at his father. Then fell into the darkness.

Alone.

* * *

Hours had passed, and rain had fallen—but Amy and the others did not stop nor rest from their search for Ian.

"Did you find him?" was Amy's breathless question to Jake and Atticus as they ran to her, who had given up on searching Heartwoods Street. Amy observed that the two of them looked as tired as she felt, their T-shirts and khakis as damp as the moss in a dirt canal, their hair as wet and frizzled as her own. Rain continued to pound on them as they looked at each other, hopeless.

When Amy saw frustration in the Rosenblooms' faces, she slumped onto the ground, not caring if anyone saw her in this state. Jake had advised her to tell it to her Uncle Fiske, and leave the searching job for him, but she hadn't budged. Something inside her felt that Ian was just around, and she felt like it was her personal job to try to straighten him out once she saw him.

She was worried that he might have gone…nuts.

And that's when she looked up.

There was no noise, or anything. But some…strange force told her to look up, and when she did, she spotted Ian standing against a tree, his face eclipsed by the tree's shadows, holding something in his hand that seemed to glint like gold. Amy felt instantly sparked with relief at the sight of him, so she started running to him; but as she neared, she saw that something was wrong. He looked so…

… _empty._

Nothing but black and white.

Amy stopped running, with Atticus and Jake just behind her. She cocked her head to the side.

"Ian? Are you…alright?"

He slowly turned his head up to see them. His face was damp with rainwater and his hair flat in wetness, half of him cast in a shadow. His eyes were empty, blank. In the midst of this, however, Amy noticed a bead of sparkling raindrop roll down his chin.

No one knew that it was a tear.


	6. Inflicted

_Today was simply another one of those Cahill reunions on a bright summer day. Amy had done everything in her power to convince Ian that he should come along with their cousins to go out swimming—she just couldn't help but notice that ever since the end of the Clue Hunt, he'd become a bit…moody, which was, of course, understandable. Amy thought that as a Madrigal, though, it was her responsible to make her cousins forget about their past as much as possible by doing all the fun summer things together. Unfortunately, Ian just wouldn't budge. So, she sought Natalie's advice on how she could come to convince him to do swimming out on such a beautiful day._

_And then Amy exploded._

" _What?!"_

_Natalie yawned, nonchalant of her cousin Amelia's outrageous outburst at her obvious suggestion. "Well, if you prefer the easiest and most efficient way of convincing him," she said, her words a bit muffled as she recovered from her bored yawn, "then that is the only way."_

_Amy Cahill simply couldn't believe that the young lady Natalie Kabra would ever suggest her to do something as crude as_ that _._

" _I c-c-can't do something like that, Natalie." The 'only way' that Natalie was speaking of made Amy's face blush with a thousand shades of red combined. "Th-th-that's just inappropriate behaviour! S-S-Surely you must be j-joking—"_

" _I'm not. But, well, I am not in the position to force you." Natalie started to walk away in her high stilettos, waving her fingers dismissively in the air to denote that she would rather be anywhere but here. However, she stopped walking after three delicate steps to turn her head and look back at Amy. "I suggest you keep my advice in your pocket, though."_

_She smirked. "Because it might come in handy."_

* * *

When Atticus Rosenbloom started thinking, no force in the universe could stop his mind from doing so.

He walked down the halls, eyes contemplative as he scanned over the news article that he laid over the pages of a big, open book. The article was the same one written about the dreaded mysterious disease called the Mystery Syndrome, with only six people having ever been affected in history, from last day.

Atticus wondered why these incidents only happened in London. He wondered why the symptoms are what they are.

He wondered why even the experts from Cambridge couldn't figure out what it is.

 _He stood there, his eyes wide, his limbs slack, his whole body assaulted by the lightning of the shock that he swore his heart had just stopped and burned into a black statue right then and there. He couldn't believe it. He_ didn't _believe it. It simply can't be…_

_The young Atticus gulped down that rising lump of tears and balled up emotions in his throat, clenching his fists by his side with the only ounce of force he had left in the empty shell he'd once called a living body—but the force that a weak child can ever muster to possess could only go so far._

_So, the container being too small, the lid finally burst and the tears then overflowed and rushed down his face._

_But the boy didn't seem to feel it. He'd grown numb as the days had progressed, he'd grown used to the pain that simply didn't seem to stop chasing after him on every corner, he'd become so used and tattered and helpless that, by now, tears were nothing to him but a natural biological phenomenon. He only looked at the doctor. Straight into the eyes. His own were big with moist and the childlike sense of naiveté, purity, innocence—all of that about to be shattered soon, him being the one to smash the glass himself._

" _Doctor?" he pressed on, the word passing through his trembling lips with just even the tiniest spark of hope._

_Or perhaps, that was just desperation._

But, despite the turmoil raging on inside Atticus' frail mind, the doctor had only looked into his eyes, and spoke the truth. Blankly. Emotionlessly. Then, he had walked away, leaving the rest of the Rosenbloom family to grieve.

At the time, all Harvard doctors and scholars had already been summoned to see his ill mother. But no one had found out why she was ill in the first place. _No one_. Atticus couldn't help but feel that he was the one to blame, that he _should_ be the one to blame. After all, all Atticus had ever done at that time was to wait for the doctors' results and for the medicines to work. He'd been useless, _pathetic_. He hadn't done anything _at all_ , but waste the time of the doctors by leading them to a false clue. He'd told them that his mother had an unusual friend named Dave and that Dave was the one to blame, but His classmates, his 'friends', _all_ of them were right—he was a pathetic weirdo who suffered delusions of grandeur of his own 'intelligence', when in reality all he'd ever done was nothing and simply stand idly by in the midst of a crisis where the person he loved the most _needed_ him the most. In the end, Atticus Rosenbloom had been nothing but a powerless kid.

That is why Astrid Rosenbloom died.

That was why he was determined to change that. So he cleared his thoughts, firmly pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and brought himself to focus on the words of the news article.

… _the family of each victim strangely claimed that their victimized family member had been acting oddly before their deaths, saying that they started having a mental breakdown. To enumerate, these are frequent emotional bursts akin to hysteria, hallucinations, and paranoia. Surprisingly still, the cause and theme of their mental breakdown seem to be the same—which is depression from past memories._

_But, going outside the medical perspective, their research had strangely found out that all the six victims had visited an auction in downtown London…_

He wondered why their disease coincided with their possession of specifically mentioned mirrors bought from an auction. He wondered what Dr Lira Pendergrass meant when she said ' _potentially useless information'_.

He wondered why.

Atticus racked his brain, the wheels turning around. He folded the cut-out news article and planted it between the other pages of his huge mythology book, the same one that led Team Artemis to their red flags: The Ancient Folktales of Norse Mythology. He returned to the original page he'd been resting his article on. He adjusted his century-thick glasses first before he started fingering the contents of the book, reading the scrubby, ancient words as scrupulously as possible.

_The lost book, entitled Sefer Hazor, had once been a property of the old spiritualist and necromancer, the dark sorceress Esmeralda Godfrey._

_The Sefer Hazor, an ancient Oaboalah text, was a spell book, used to guide the ancient witches of the Old World using Norse rune magic._

_Legends proclaim that Godfrey cursed the legendary English monarch, King Marcosias the Sixth._

_The curse made King Marcosias experience unexplainable grief over his brother, Sir Lampton of the Seven Isles._

… _although Lampton had already been dead for the past fifteen years._

_For three days King Marcosias was in deep sorrow over Sir Lampton for no known reason at all._

_The doctors found no cure for the voices and apparitions that only King Marcosias could seem to hear and see._

_He kept on babbling and babbling about seven mirrors…_

… _given to him by seven strange girls…_

… _daughters of Esmeralda Godfrey…_

"What?" Atticus asked himself, jerking himself up from the book, eyes wide with shock. Then, excitedly, he scrambled to put his glasses up his nose, bending down to read that line once more.

_For three days King Marcosias was in deep sorrow over Sir Lampton for no known reason at all, and the doctors find no cure for the voices and apparitions that only King Marcosias could seem to hear and see._

There. That's what he'd been looking for all this time. _A connection._ Atticus was bubbling up from the inside, knowing that he had just made a breakthrough. An incurable modern syndrome, and an incurable curse from an old legend, both concerning sorrowful behaviour that was beyond normal, and disassociation from reality. This—this was _definitely_ strikingly similar to Ian's condition, whatever _this_ was. He'd began suspecting that this was the case ever since he'd witnessed Ian disappear just an hour ago, where he'd displayed behaviour that was far from usual. Atticus had begun suspecting that maybe, just maybe…Ian had the Mystery Syndrome.

And because he didn't want Ian to end up being like his mother, he didn't want to become a powerless kid who couldn't save anyone from impending death, he took the initiative and started to research—until he ended up reading about the legend of King Marcosias.

It was ridiculous to even think that a curse could be behind a syndrome, because, this is the twenty-first century, after all.

_But it was better than nothing._

With this in mind, Atticus steeled his face and put on a determined mask. He was just about to proceed on reading, but—

Slam.

"Ow!"

"Hey!"

Atticus fell hard on his back. He painfully opened one eye, scratching his head. When he registered the two people in front of him, he found Jake doing the same.

"Argh…Att…watch where you're going, okay?" said Jake, who was starting to get up. His back sounded like firecrackers when he tried to bend it.

"Sorry!" said Amy, who immediately set to work on picking up the younger Rosenbloom's books. She gave Atticus a hand to help him up to his feet. She handed him the books. " _We_ weren't watching where we're going. Sorry." She shot Jake a look, and Jake flashed her his infamous now-what-did-I-do-again? look.

"Hey! _We_ weren't watching where we're going? Atticus was the one who—"

Amy turned to Atticus.

"Wow," she said, after glancing down at the titles of his books. "Can't move on from Norse mythology, now, huh?"

Jake popped himself between the two. "I've had enough of you falling in love with Idunna, Atticus."

Atticus inched himself away from the couple, turning them his back. "In actuality…I'm not really studying these Norse mythology books for pleasure, Jake."

Silence settled. After seconds passed, Amy broke it up with…

"Okay then." She nudged Jake to start to leave. "When you need something, you know where to find—"

"Wait." Atticus turned to face them again, and considered trying to tell him what he thought about this case.

_But…but what if they…_

He clenched his fists.

_What if they don't believe me?_

"Yeah?" Amy probed with a smile.

" _What are you talking about, kid?" said the guard, laughing like a maniac as if what the child had just proposed was so utterly preposterous. "Someone poisoned your mother? What makes you say something as crazy as_ that? _"_

" _I—I'm sorry, sir," said Mark Rosenbloom, who tried to pull his son away from the doctor and prevent him from saying anything more than this. "My son is simply stressed out, maybe he's just having his own delusions, ha-ha! Now, now, Atticus, it's time for us to go home—"_

" _No!" The young Atticus yanked himself out of his father's grip. Then he turned to the guard, as vehemently as ever. "You have to let me in! I have to tell this to the doctors that my mother might actually have been poisoned! By that man, Dave Speminer!"_

_Silence._

" _Atticus, please." Mark had had enough of his son's accusations which led absolutely nowhere. Mark perfectly understood that Atticus had some sort of dislike toward the man, he himself had his own dispositions, but he simply can't let Atticus go around accusing people without concrete proof. As far as he knew, Dave Speminer was a close friend of Astrid Rosenbloom. Who would listen to a child as eccentric as Atticus, who could very well be suffering from a mental disorder now himself? Mark had taken Atticus to various psychologists now, and they had all given him a diagnosis of depression, which was understandable, given their current situation. So who knew this wasn't merely a product of Atticus' imagination?_

" _Atticus. Let's go home."_

" _No, father, please! I know he's behind this! Just listen to me!"_

But no one did.

"In actuality…" Atticus said, his gaze distant, eyes glazed over from a memory. "I've been thinking about Ian."

A flash of something unreadable went through Jake's eyes. His handsome features darkened like the clouds outside.

"What did you say?" he asked, sharply.

Atticus gulped. But then, forcing himself to be a little braver, he spoke even louder. "I think something's wrong with Ian," he repeated. "I think…I think he has the Mystery Sy—"

"Will everyone just _shut up_ about that formidable little snake?" Jake sighed, exasperated, looking up at the ceiling. "The two of you—I don't understand what's with that Cobra that you _have_ to pour all your fabulous energy into. He deserves nothing of your attention, Amy—what about Korea? And South Africa and Australia and when his mother murdered your parents and all those times he tried to kill you? And you, Atticus. You _barely_ even know him, but why do you have to try so freaking _hard?_ "

Atticus has heard enough. He ran.

"Atticus Rosenbloom! I'm _not_ yet finished—"

" _Yes, we are."_

Jake spun around to turn at the source of the authoritative voice.

"We've put all that behind us, Jake," Amy continued, her gaze stern and straight. "The Clue hunt…" she said in barely above a whisper, "…is behind us."

And she ran, too, leaving Jake in a daze.

* * *

Ian sat beside the window, where thunder cracked and lightning lit up the grumbling grey sky, causing shadows to flicker over his dark features.

He turned his head to look at the window as another downpour of rain started to fall. It had been a series of rainy days here in America, almost like in London, where the Englishmen knew all too perfectly the sound of the rain. He let himself try a smile. Ian Kabra was one of them who actually _liked_ the sound of the rain. It set everything in a dismal mood, cloaked the entire place in darkness. It blocked out the sunlight, and destroyed the happiness of people. It made his dark mood blend in with the weather. It made him feel even colder than what he already feels. And he actually found it…comforting.

He was thankful that the rain was there to comfort him when no one and nothing else ever would.

Ian looked back down at the object in his hand. He turned it over, flipped it back. He closely observed its serpentine golden handle, which crawled up and bordered around the golden mirror. A single red gem placed on the centre glinted when the beam of a lightning struck it. The peculiar ochre colour of the mirror itself, the unusual way his reflection seemed to glow back at him. The mirror seemed to hold a vivid fire inside of it, trapped and inextinguishable—like thousands of unheard voices calling out to him, thousands of souls trapped from the inside.

It was almost…ethereal.

It was only yesterday when he had acquired the bizarre golden object from a girl he didn't know, and yet…he felt so attached to it, as if he'd already become one with it. And he knew it was utterly strange, but he felt as if he'd already went _inside_ it.

Literally.

Which was, of course, ridiculous to think. How on earth could everything that he _thought_ had happened really _had_ happened?

He remembered the tall image of a man, the same man who turned his back to him, the same man who _disowned_ him, jumping from the bridge of safety just to reach for his hand, thinking that if his son was going to fall, then they were going to fall _together_.

… _would Father really…do that for me?_

He looked at himself in the mirror, contemplating the amber eyes that stared back at him. Then he reeled at himself.

 _Really_.

How disgusting of him to even start _thinking_ about these things.

But the sentimentality that had settled in the sombre atmosphere was suddenly interrupted. Ian sneezed. He dropped the mirror onto the floor in two clinks. He put a hand onto the windowsill to support himself, and put another finger on the bridge of his nose to breathe and try to calm himself down. Precious Luke Cahill. Curse yesterday for drenching himself in rainwater. Curse _today_ for drenching himself in rainwater. Now he was surely going to catch a cold.

A knock from the door stopped him short. A muffled feminine voice called his name from outside. Ian stood up, opened the door, expecting it to be one particular jade-eyed girl coming to approach him, unnaturally feeling more than neutral to see her. But he was confused as to see someone he didn't know.

She revealed her familiar face as she lowered her bouquet of white roses.

"You still haven't told me your orders, sir."

The roses exploded like fireworks, almost ethereally, sending out a sparkle of white smoke that knocked him out in a second, paralyzing him on the ground.

Only one name ran around in circles in his mind before all went black.

_Urd._

* * *

It was slow, but eventually he was able to regain his mental faculties. He heard the shuffling of the fabric of the cotton pillowcase as he shifted his head to a more comfortable position. His eyelids fluttered open only to blink them as the harsh light was bombarded from the ceiling to blind him. It took him awhile to adjust, his amber eyes taking the time to take in his unfamiliar surroundings. And when his dull vision started to focus…

" _Ian_ ," sighed the jade-eyed girl on his right, who had been anticipating for him to wake up, and had been worried sick about what had happened to him. "Thank heavens."

He struggled to sit up, a hand clutching at his head, which, for some reason, felt so heavy that it was a struggle to even just lift it. Then he felt some uncomfortable itch starting to crawl up his throat, and he ended up having to bear through a series of coughs that felt as if his lungs were being hacked. Amy rushed to pour some water from a pitcher into a glass, and then she pushed aside her small wooden chair so she could get to Ian, whose shaking form suddenly seemed too weak to handle the harsh coughs.

"Here, here," said Amy in a voice that she hoped was soothing, despite her own rising panic. She let a hand rub his back, but she felt so pathetic when she noticed that her own hand was trembling. _Oh, Amy,_ please _. You've dealt with Dan's asthma before. Get a grip._ With that little inner scolding, Amy managed to steady herself and deal with Ian a bit more with the required composure.

"Calm down, now, Ian, calm down. That's right. Breathe." Eventually, the coughs had subsided, and Ian looked so exhausted from the ordeal that he looked like he was on the edge of fainting. His face was red, flushed with a high fever, and his breaths were not without the sound of wheezing. His amber eyes were bloodshot, as if they had been pricked with tears, a side effect of hyperpyrexia. Ian held his head with two fingers, and shut his eyes close as if he were in pain.

"Ian," interrupted Amy, a tinge of worry underlining her tone. When Ian opened his eyes to look at her with a gaze that looked as if he'd just seen her there, Amy forced herself to muster a smile for his sake. "Drink this, okay? It'll make you feel better."

Ian stared at the offered glass of water for a moment. Or perhaps two. It was a little longer than what was necessary, and Amy felt the strange sensation that Ian suddenly looked… _suspicious_. He stared at the glass of water in her hand, cautiously, calculatingly, as if trying to figure out whether or not it was poisoned and was meant to kill him. His eyes were… _different_. Amy was not sure why or how—of course she knew that those eyes still belonged to Ian and it must be ridiculous to be even thinking about things that surely were just the products of her imagination—but…but these eyes before her…

They suddenly frightened her.

"I-Ian?" She insisted the glass of water to him. "Wouldn't you take this? My hand's starting to get numb, you know." And then her eyes brightened when an idea suddenly sparked at the back of her brain. She wanted to suddenly smack herself on the forehead for not realizing it earlier. Of course. _Tea!_

"O-Or maybe you'd like some tea?" she asked, now with a little more hope in her tone. "We don't have your favourite Earl Grey, but we have jasmine downstairs, and I'd be happy to make one for you if you li—"

His eyes turned. She stopped talking. And he looked at her in a strange way that ran a chill through Amy's spine.

"Who…are you?"

At that, she very nearly dropped the glass of water.

Wh…

_What?_

It took several moments of silence, with Amy inwardly debating what that was just all about.

And then the joke sank in.

Amy suddenly burst out in laughter, deriding herself inwardly for having almost bought that. He must be playing. Of course. Just playing in that usual mischievous way of his.

"Very funny, Ian, you nearly caught me there. Now, why don't you just take a drink first?"

"Where am I?"

Amy spread her arms and gestured around. "In my room, of course. I found you on the floor in the hallway, Ian, so unlike you to sprawl yourself all over like that. So, I brought you here with the help of Nellie. She's on her way right now to bring you some food and interrogate you about what had just happened." She smiled sheepishly after saying that last bit.

Ian let his eyes follow her as he inwardly started summing up what he had just heard. He was fully able to summarize it in four, ominous words—

"So you kidnapped me."

"Well," Amy laughed good-naturedly, not at all recognizing that shred of suspiciousness in his voice. Amy then gently placed the glass of water near the bedside table, leaving Ian to just get it as he wished. And then, Amy turned around to adjust the wooden chair, speaking the words as she smoothened out the creases on the chair's cushion. "I guess we did."

There was no pause in the air as Ian stressed his demand. "Where is she?"

"Who?"

It all happened so quickly that Amy didn't even recognize the thing that was suddenly in Ian's hand. But as she turned around from her chair to finally face her friend, she realized that what she actually had with her in this room was an enemy. In that split second that Amy's eyes were away, Ian had been able to pull out a silver Beretta from his Harris Tweed jacket, whipping it to the air so fast so that he was now pointing the barrel of the gun on her head.

"Do not play games with me," he said, the words cold and sharp like the knife that had just been plunged into Amy's heart. "I believe that I've just asked you a question. Now answer it."

Amy's blood ran cold as she stared up at the one person whom she thought was Ian Kabra. She was too overcome by shock to move—every muscle in her body had frozen and she could just swear that her heart had stopped beating right then and there.

"Wh-why…are you…"

He pushed the cold barrel of his gun onto her head to silence her. All Amy could do was stare up at this person before her in outright horror.

"You are trapped with me in this room." The words were quick and sharp and never left any room for pestilent questions. "Just the two of us." Ian looked down at Amy as if she were some lapdog that was below him, someone that he was supposed to command. "And no one would ever be able to bear witness." His amber eyes were clouded, dark and thundering with danger. Amy's heart nearly jumped out of her ribcage when the finger that had once hovered over the trigger now touched it with a definite tap.

"And I," he said, calmly, coldly, pointing the handgun right at her head, his inborn Lucian id suddenly out of the cage.

"…will not hesitate."

And it was in that frightening little second, as she stared deep into the cavern of the barrel of the gun, when Amy suddenly had no doubt that this Ian before her was saying the truth.

Simply the cold, factual truth.

"I am certain that we both do not want to end this…messily." A glint of malice had crossed his eyes when the light from the ceiling suddenly hit the Lucian's amber orbs as Ian tilted his head to the side in a superior manner—the manner of an executioner. "Do not run, nor shout for help. Just speak. Quietly." He was pressing the gun onto her forehead now, his question now a demand.

" _Where_ is she?"

…silence.

"I'll ask again. _Where_ _is she?_ "

Amy didn't answer. Amy _couldn't_ answer. Well, what _was_ she supposed to say after something like that? What was Ian even _talking_ about? She? Who's _she?_ Certainly it can't be—

Oh.

Once realization dawned, panic suddenly descended upon Amy's eyes.

_No._

"Y…your fever," she stammered, trying to keep her alarm under control. She had to be gentle with her words now. She can't just suddenly blurt out that she… _Natalie_ …well. She had to be careful with her words with Ian in this fragile state, lest she wanted to provoke him and accidentally push him to do something drastic. No. She had to pull him out of this. Out of this… _delusion_.

"Your fever," she repeated, now pouring more force into her voice. "It is bordering on upsetting, Ian." She slowly got up from her chair and gingerly walked over to him with a hand carefully outstretched to touch him, her action a bit hesitant in and of itself—but still she approached, slowly, tenderly, carefully, as cautiously as how one would approach a lion that was agitated by the metal bars of the cage that locked it in.

"You're…you're not acting like yourself today. Oh, and y-you'd like tea, yes? And I really think you should get some—"

Something sliced through the air in that split second. She saw the flash of the bang before she heard the flower vase explode into shards from behind her. And Amy just stood there, frozen in shock, as she realized what just happened, with her staring straight into the black hole of the gun where the bullet had come from, where the fire had remained to hiss.

She couldn't believe it. She didn't _want_ to. But that was what had just happened. That was _exactly_ what had happened. He'd pulled the trigger, and he was saying the truth.

He hadn't hesitated.

Only one name crossed her mind, and the mere thought of it made her sick. She put a hand over her mouth and an arm over her stomach to keep it from lurching over.

_Isabel._

"That is a warning." Ian didn't falter. He didn't even look like he cared for the vase he'd just shot at—after all, he'd almost murdered a person right then and there. It didn't matter to him. Nothing mattered to him now. His resolve was fixed. He only wanted one thing.

"My sister. Talk. _Where are you keeping her?"_

"Ian…p-p-p- _please._ " Amy slowly got herself down on her knees before him, hoping that her humble act would somehow, in anyway whatsoever, he'd finally come to his senses and snap out of it. "I…I have an idea. H-How about…we d-do it this way instead?" Her hands slowly reached out to him, ever so cautiously, careful not to provoke the lion and make herself a prey. Then, when she was sure that Ian wasn't going to react violently whatsoever, Amy finally let her hand rest onto his gun to lower it from her head.

"Let us just…" She held her gaze steadily as she slowly lowered it away from her. "…put this gun…" Then she gently tried to pry it away from his hold, making sure that her gentle eyes were directly making contact with his amber ones. _Steady, Amy. You have him now._ "…down. Okay? Everything is going to be just…"

Amy simply had to make that one final gentle pull to get the dangerous gun away from the Lucian's hands. Just one more pull…gently…softly. Keep , firmly. Don't stop. _Let him know you're a friend._

"…fine. Alright? So let's just…put this gun…away from you…for the moment…"

Amy was this close, _this_ close, to prying away the weapon, but in the midst of it all, Ian's grip suddenly tightened around the gun and his glazed eyes seemed to sharpen back into focus.

"N…No."

"But Ian," said Amy, disappointed that she hadn't succeeded in her initial plan. Despite that, though, she was still nonetheless the hopeful Madrigal, the loving family, the remaining friend that she'd always had been, that she'd always be. "Let's just…let's just look for another way to—"

"Shut up."

That threw her off balance. "Wh…what?"

"Shut up." He was clenching his fists, and it took him all his willpower to keep his voice from trembling.

"But Ian—"

And then he broke completely.

"I said, shut up, _shut up!_ " By now he had already grabbed at collar of Amy's shirt and forced her up the ground, pulling her to him as if to make Amy _really_ see what she just bloody _couldn't_. "I am not, _not_ having it any other way! I know you're hiding her. Somewhere in this place, I _know_ you're hiding her. Couldn't you _understand?_ She's my sister. My _sister_ , you hear me!"

Amy didn't move. She didn't dare. All she did was stare up at him, her green eyes wide with utter bewilderment. Amy simply stared, at this person who was now unknowingly pouring out every ounce of his agony to her.

Ian Kabra. The heir of the Lucians, that traitorous snake. That cunning liar, the master of deception. The son of evil itself. Devious. Deadly. Ruthless. All those titles crumbled down and collapsed in a heaping pile, revealing what was really lying from underneath.

And here he was.

A child, broken beyond repair.

He was screaming now, his voice bordering on desperateness, wavering on emotion even though he tried to conceal it with misdirected anger.

"I want this entire place searched, demolished, flipped upside-down, pulverised _brick by brick_ , incinerated down to ash, turn it to Hell if you have to, do anything, _everything_ , just _look for her!_ "

She stared up at his feverish eyes, his face getting more flushed than ever as his fever rose with every intensifying word.

"I _want_ her _here_ , _this instant!_ "

She let her hand slowly land onto Ian's, which were still gripping the fabric of her clothing.

"Do you even _hear_ me? Am I making myself perfectly _clear?_ "

Gently but firmly, she pried away his fingers from her clothing, and she held his trembling fingers in hers, her hold around them tightening more than ever when she realized how delirious with fever he really was right now. She made sure to lock her eyes with him, to reassure him that he was safe now.

_Hush, Ian. I'm here. I'm here._

"Do you understand what I am saying? _Do you even understand?_ "

Amy didn't say anything.

"Look into my eyes, and tell me! Just _tell_ …tell me." Ian, now exhausted of the whole time he was stuck in his own delirium, finally let himself collapse in Amy's arms. "Tell me if you do. This is an order. An…or…"

He was struggling to keep himself conscious.

"…der."

And then, drained of all energy, he fell into oblivion.

Amy tightened her embrace around him when she heard the last of his mumbles fade away into a silent whisper as he finally drifted back into sleep. His cheeks were feverishly red and his hot breaths coming out in rapid succession; he looked so weak, so vulnerable, that at that very moment Amy couldn't help but feel…like _crying_. With one hand still gripping both of his hot, trembling ones, she let a teardrop roll down her cheek, then another, and then another, until she couldn't help the cascade and the racking of her entire body as the tears poured out of her eyes like a waterfall, shedding the hurt and heartache that Ian had always held back the entire time.

"Yes, Ian. I…I understand."

She kissed his forehead, as if to convince him that she really did.

And together, they fell into a dreamless sleep…the rain from outside incessantly pounding on.

Who knew Natalie's advice would come in handy at the time Ian needed it the most?

* * *

Atticus pushed the book into the top shelf among its other paged friends, and carefully climbed down from the ladder, ignoring the sound of a closing door as he went.

Jake couldn't believe it. He was just standing there at the door, staring at his brother as if patiently waiting for him to acknowledge his presence. The older just stood there, watching Atticus take a calm stroll through one of the aisles and shelves, browsing the titles. But as the younger Rosenbloom's eyes glanced over him, he didn't even utter a single word. Not a 'hey', or even a 'hi'.

It was clear. Atticus was upset at him.

Jake felt like he'd been betrayed. Well, it _is_ family that betrays you the most, isn't? It hurt him as much as when Amy came to Ian's defence that night when they fought over such a simple, innocent thing that could be fought over by any child. It was actually _Ian_ who started the fight at the dinner table, if you think about it, because he had no _right_ to flirt with his girlfriend in the first place and mock him into a challenge of making her blush. See? A simple child's game, and when that pathetic bloke Ian Cobra was aggravated because of losing the fight he started, everyone in the room immediately hated Jake for winning.

Worst of all, ever since then, Amy started to avoid him even more than before. Earlier that morning he'd just been chatting with her about making amends with her—and yet she'd suddenly proposed to him to make amends to _Cobra_ , instead. He couldn't believe it. Amy was just making everything so difficult for him. It was _Cobra_ who should apologize, not _him_! Even though he had his list of reasons why he _shouldn't_ be the one apologizing—like he _wasn't_ the one who started the fight, or that he didn't think Ian should be so affected by mere words that were less than damaging—no one sided him, no one listened to him, no one understood him. He thought Amy would be the one person who could and definitely _would_ , but now that he knew she wasn't, the only one whom he thought was in his side was his brother Atticus.

But now, look at him. Atticus Rosenbloom should've been _smarter_. Atticus Rosenbloom should know who or who not to befriend. Atticus Rosenbloom should be careful about being acquainted by a Cobra—you never know if he was about to trap his brother in a cave or feed him to the sharks. And yet, here he was, researching in a library, most probably thinking about how better off Ian Kabra was without Jake Rosenbloom to pester him in his serpentine life.

Atticus Rosenbloom actually _sided_ Ian Kabra, completely leaving Jake in the dark.

Jake looked away, blinking away the stubborn moistness forming in his eyes. "Uh, hey there, Atticus," he said, only to distract himself.

Atticus did not respond, continuing his business. He just kneeled on the floor, fingering the titles of the books, occasionally picking one to leaf through its contents.

Jake threw his hands up in the air and dramatically pressed his hands down over his face, as if he was already exhausted from this wordless conversation. "Okay, I _know_ you're fed up with me about Ian," he started, and waited for a response, but when there was still nothing, he continued, the words spilling out of his mouth in the rush of a river.

"Please, I'm actually _tired_ of being ignored. Amy does that to me all the time, and mostly I just let it pass, thinking that she would be better off for the time being without me distracting her from her Madrigal leadership training and whatnot. But then this Cobra is thrown into the picture, and I don't like it. He starts flirting around her—like that time in the dinner table. Yeah, I know, childish, right? _He_ is the one who is childish, not _me_. You can't blame me for, you know, being a little bit angry at him for purposely trying to get her attention, when I try so hard not to disturb her from Madrigal chaos and Cahillian business. You can't blame me for _accidentally_ hurting his feelings by the words I say —everybody does mistakes they regret later. I regret _mine_."

He looked at Atticus, genuinely wild-eyed, expecting a response. After waiting a few seconds to get his brother to speak to him, to _talk_ to him, to actually, for once, to _listen_ to him, he got nothing, his brother just there on the floor still leafing through a randomly chosen book.

Jake walked up to him and snatched the book from him, and he let his voice volume up. "Will you stop caring about that Kabra and start listening to _me_?"

Atticus picked up his other books from the ground, and calmly stood up. He looked at Jake, and, despite the great height difference, it seemed as though Atticus was the one towering over him with his gaze.

"To be honest…I didn't like you at first when you were introduced to the family," Atticus started. "But despite the ugly looks our neighbours are giving you because you were an, well…'adopted' member of the Rosenbloom family, I continued to look at you as my brother, and accept you as family, no matter how hard it is for me to be heartbroken about you being a _step_ brother. I tried not to look at the bloodline where you came from, and I've grown to love you as a real brother. I didn't stop caring about you despite _your_ real mother having been the cause of _my_ mother's heartbreak over our father, despite the accusations our neighbours gave us, despite my mother's friends actually hating you…but _if_ I left you alone in the darkness of what our parents had done in the past, then you'll never have the chance to become the future. I had to let you know you weren't alone in crossing that dark bridge of your life."

Jake hadn't seen this coming in a million years—his brother suddenly going philosophical on him.

"Ian's in a certain period of his life," he continued. "He's crossing a bridge cloaked in darkness, just like you had at _that_ time, and I don't want to make him feel like he's alone in crossing it. His sister _died_ , Jake. His mother, too. I know I don't know him much, but what I do know is that I have the capacity to help. Even if he never made anyone come to him when he needed comfort the most. He _deflected_ the people who wanted to come to his help, unlike you who wants to get as much attention as possible in every little thing that happened to your life. And I know you hate him—I don't know if you're jealous or something like that—and I know you don't really… _accept_ him as a part of the family because of what he did in the past. I know I just knew him, but I try not to look at his past mistakes—"

"—like intentionally trapping Amy and Dan forever in a Korean cave to die—"

"—and I try look at him as a friend instead." Atticus glared at him, and he pushed past him to the door. "Listen to Ian's voice for once, and try not to interrupt him—just… _listen_. He's the one who needs it for the moment. You'll understand."

Jake was so taken aback, he actually took two trembling steps backward. "Wh…what are you _talking_ about?"

Atticus took a moment to think about what to say next. Then he looked up at him. "Think, Jake," he told him, about to throw in a challenging thought. "When you came into my life, did I hate you just because of where you came from?"

And the library door closed, blocking the light from outside to cloak Jake in the darkness.

* * *

"—because, now I finally know, it's my fault. So, now, I just want to say…Amy…Amy. I'm really—I'm really…well…sorry." And then he realized at how stupid that just sounded.

Jake slapped a hand onto his forehead and he stopped walking, aware that he had already reached Amy's room. He'd been rehearsing for this—he thought that this should be perfect, but apparently it wasn't turning out to be anywhere near it.

"I…uh…I'm ready to apologize to Cob—I mean, Ian. Yeah. I can't do this without your help. I realized my mistakes because of this talk I had with Att…and then…and then…"

Jake sighed audibly, letting all the air out of his lungs. He rubbed his face dramatically, clearly stressed out. He'd been having a habit of doing this mannerism recently, because he was _stressed out_. He thought he might just snap like a rubber band. He despairingly thumped his head onto Amy's door, closing his eyes as he blew the air out of his face. He wasn't even sure if he even _needed_ to be stressed out in a situation he clearly wasn't involved in—that syndrome his brother was telling earlier, what was it? The Mystery Syndrome? He was pretty sure that that was the problem of his 'acquaintance' (namely Ian Kabra) right now, but he was also pretty sure that Amy was still reeling from the fight the two have had during dinner last night. So Jake thought, _I should get out of this small problem before it gets out of hand._

"Ah, what am I doing?" he derided himself. "I should just apologize naturally…"

But before Jake got to stand up straighter, Jake's eyes suddenly caught a glance of the room beside Amy's — _Ian Cobra's room, door wide open, empty inside._ He narrowed his eyes, as suspicion settled in. _Ian and Amy, inside Amy's room, alone?_

His eyes widened as that realization settled in.

Without knocking whatsoever, he opened Amy's door.

And he didn't like what he saw.

Jake forgot everything else his little brother Atticus had challenged him to ponder about. He forgot everything else he had forced himself to rehearse, with that stupid apology speech. He ignored the sound of Amy's stuttering voice shakily call out his name as she was suddenly snapped out of her little sleeping session with Ian. His face reddened intensely, and the picture of Amy and Ian together stubbornly refused to get out of his head, no matter how much he tried. He stomped down the halls, bitterly furious.

 _Accepting Ian as part of the family, eh?_ Jake fumingly thought, he actually felt real live tears starting to sprout from the edges of his fiery eyes. _Ha. Fat chance._


	7. The Maledicted Legend

Every fibre of Amy Cahill's being stopped and froze as she looked up at the pair of horrified eyes that glared down at her.

"Amy…wh…what are you…" was Jake's only manageable response.

Amy looked at the offended Jake, with barely an explanation ready at the tip of her tongue. All the blood in her body rushed to her face as she tried to struggle for words.

"I—Jake—no, it's not what you think! Please—you're…you're g-going to have to l-l-let me explain this one—"

Jake glared down at her, looking as if the Rosenbloom might break at any second. "I've seen enough." He turned away and slammed the door shut.

Amy scrambled up from her chair and struggled to fit her feet on her slippers. "Wait—Jake—" she was saying, but just as she was about to run for the door, Ian's hand had reached hers to stop her from getting anywhere.

"Ian…I'm really sorry, but I still just—"

"Please." It was such an unusual word, coming out of Ian Kabra's lips, but here he was, saying it to her. "Please. Don't leave me alone. Don't leave me alone… _Natalie_..."

That threw her off of her feet for a moment.

_Natalie?_

Amy took one longing look at the door—the door that separated her from explaining everything to Jake, explaining everything to a pair of ears that wouldn't listen. Then she took a look at Ian, he who hasn't been able to move forward to the future because the gravity of his past kept swallowing him in its darkness. Ian needed a hand to pull him out of that quicksand, and he needed it more than ever. So instead of running out to get to Jake, Amy decided to sit on the bed beside Ian and hold his hand even tighter, taking watch of him as he continued to sleep peacefully in her bed, his breaths slower and more rhythmic now that his fever was starting to wane with each second that he rested…perhaps for the first time in a long time.

* * *

When the door of the dining hall opened and closed, everybody on the table didn't dare utter a single word.

 _Good,_ Ian thought, steadily striding down across the hall. He preferred to take it this way. He didn't like to have to endure some rambunctious Cahillian noise while he was having his dinner. He took the seat farthest away from most of the group, but most especially Amy. He observed them quietly eat their meals, with only the sound of spoons and knives clanking against their white plates filling the tense, silent air. The table attendance wasn't quite complete—Ian noticed that only the older Cahill teens occupied the whole dining hall, eating as quietly as they ever could, afraid to break the glass that was the fragile air.

Ian sighed, and grabbed his spoon. He took one look down at the meal for dinner…but he didn't feel very hungry at the moment. He thought he saw only sawdust in his plate—and it would probably taste as such—so he put down his spoon beside him.

His stomach wasn't the one that needed feeding—his brain was practically _begging_ for answers. Something's happening to him. And he wasn't quite sure what, or why, or how, _exactly_ —he just felt as if…as if something was utterly _wrong_ with him.

Six hours ago, he'd been delirious with fever, but after having been medicated by house means and a little rest, he'd improved quite a bit, and now he was feeling fine. He had a little headache and a stuffy nose, but he was fine. Or at least he'd said so, anyway. Amy had insisted that he should probably get some more rest, else his fever would relapse, but Ian had been quite persistent that he was fine—to get to the point, he really didn't want any more of her attention now. Being around Amy was really the last thing he wanted to be right now.

Because Amy had told him everything. About how she had found him unconscious in the doorway of his own room, and how he had been struck by an extremely high fever, just a few hours ago. And…

How he'd pulled the trigger on her.

He felt _terrible_. Amy had assured him a thousand times that it was perfectly fine by her as long as _he_ was fine, but he couldn't imagine _how on Earth_ almost murdering her a few hours ago would be just ' _perfectly_ fine'. He wouldn't be convinced, even if Amy said that it was _perfectly_ excusable for her because he was suffering from a fever that had bordered on really upsetting. No. The reason why Ian really felt terrible about this was the fact that…

_He had been aware of his actions the entire time._

He knew that he'd purposefully whipped out his gun, he knew that he'd pointed it on Amy, and he knew that he absolutely didn't care whether she lived or die—the only thing that mattered to him at that moment was his _sister_ , nothing more. And it frightened him. It frightened him that he'd lost control. It frightened him that even if he had been aware of what he had been doing, he had _still_ lost control of himself, of his emotions, of his thoughts and of his inner feelings. He showed her how vulnerable he really was, how pathetic, how weak—he'd even _dared_ to hold her hand just to seek for her comfort. He'd laid himself too… _open_.

_And he hated it._

He felt embarrassed of his grand show of emotions. He was never really one to become all emotional—he liked boxing them all inside of him and keeping it there for eternity. But he was so frustrated at himself for having showed that side of him to _Amy_ , of all people. Well, even he didn't want to admit to himself that Amy had been enough source of comfort for him while he had been having those delusions, he couldn't deny that he sort of… _liked_ that comfort.

However, he would really rather stay away from her as much as possible from now on. The mortification would be probably unbearable, knowing that Amy was geared with the knowledge that she had personally seen him break down like that. Also, he'd heard that Jake had been quite the jealous git when he misinterpreted that little scene with him and Amy on the same room. Ian thought that it would be a really good idea if he stayed away from Amy and the said jealous git from now on.

Besides, he had more things he should be thinking about right now. He knew that it must have only been him being delirious with fever, but his short bed rest earlier had been plagued with a rather…disturbing nightmare. The last thing he remembered about it was—

Wait. Hold that thought.

_The last thing he remembered about it was…_

Empty void. It was black all around. No source of light, nothing. He stood on the ground, though there really was no ground. Only blackness. And then…somewhere, far away…he had heard a familiar voice calling out his name, tenderly calling _him_. The voice was of an ethereal, eerie essence, like a ghost calling him from heaven. But this was no heaven—it was a void, empty space. So he ran, with intentions of following the voice, he ran with all his might, until he found the source of the ethereal sound.

It was Natalie in a ghostly white dress, far away from him, calling out his name.

What he remembered was that he desperately tried to chase her—although there was no need to chase her, really, because she was just standing there, waiting for him to come to her. When Ian was finally at her side, he held her hand and…he told her…to not leave him all alone.

And that was it. That was what he remembered. He remembered nothing about falling unconscious on the floor—he couldn't allow such filthiness to penetrate into his luxurious Ralph Lauren—it was ludicrous. Was that a dream? It confused him to no end. Of course it _was_ a dream, he thought, what else could it ever possibly be? But Ian thought that it felt so real, so true, that it didn't feel like it was actually _just_ a dream. He felt that it had to be _real_ in some way; somehow…it just _had_ to.

And he was getting frustrated of himself. How many days had passed since he started _seeing_ ludicrous things such as these? From yesterday in London, after Tina Andrés left him alone in his mansion, he saw a mysterious girl leave a golden mirror in front of his gates. Then another enigmatic shadowy figure came from behind him, stole his family photo, and ran, only to disappear itself into thin air with the said photo. Then that girl named Urd, who played with this pendulum thing that had somehow triggered some of his memories while he and his Cahill cousins stayed at that Twilight café. Also that night when he was talking with Atticus in the Cahill's graveyard when he saw something rather peculiar hiding behind the trees. Include also the time when Natalie burst into flower petals, and don't even forget that family game which turned out into some ridiculous sort of a town of illusion. That town of illusion, where…where he met his father.

And now, _this_. This ridiculous whatever-it-is is playing with his mind, and he knew he was getting delusional. Ian Kabra did _not_ like being chased around in circles and played with by anyone, not even by the playful entity we know as fate. He hated being manipulated—only _he_ was the one that should be allowed to do that. He was going to find this out and he was going to get himself out of this.

His chair scraped across the marble floor and he stood up, leaving his uneaten meal wordlessly as he went to the kitchen. He deliberately ignored the strange looks he got from his cousins, especially Amy. She was a girl, nothing more, who distracted him from his current objective now: which was to find out _what_ on this bloody Earth was wrong with himself.

He wasn't sure _how_ he was going to, but it wouldn't hurt to try some herbal tea and firstly check if his sanity was still intact.

 _Then_ he could panic.

* * *

The reason why only the older Cahills were having dinner was because the younger ones had already had theirs earlier.

Atticus Rosenbloom may not have been related to Ian Kabra in any way to care enough about him, and he may not have any obvious reasons onto why he engaged himself into the Lucian's own personal problems, but Dan and Phoenix both assumed that their world-history genius friend just cannot resist a mystery that connected the forgotten mythology of the Norsemen to today's current dilemma (especially because Idunna is involved).

"I told you, I do _not_ have a crush on Idunna," Atticus was telling his friends, adopting his older brother's mechanism of dramatically pressing down his two hands over his face in exhaustion. "She's just a mythical character, you guys. Get a grip."

"But I'm sure you'll start searching for the Idunna of your life, Att," Phoenix said, playfully nudging him on the shoulder.

"In actuality—"

"IdunnAttics!" Dan cheered into his ear, making the Rosenbloom boy have to cringe. "How about we create an _IdunnAttics_ fan club? Huh? What do you say, Phoenix?"

The enthusiastic Wizard nodded his head in approval. "Sounds—"

"Deplorable," Atticus continued for him.

Dan paused. "Does that word mean 'probable'?"

"No, it means—I mean, yes," Atticus lied, choosing not to argue against them anymore to not prolong this pointless conversation. Well, yes, _sometimes_ he supported Dan in his ludicrous jokes and beat-boxing using fart sounds and enjoyed acting immature in front of everybody else, but he was going to have to withdraw himself this time. "Anyways, are we there yet?"

"Yep," said Dan, who was leading the group all along as they walked in the hallways. Dan stopped in front of a particular door, where a sign reading 'The Headquarters of the Mighty Ekaterina Boys' was hanging in sloppy handwriting on the door. "Here we are. The Starlings' room. For the male ones, that is."

Atticus took a deep breath. He'd never really met the Starlings before, and according to Dan's stories there was absolutely nothing to fear about the killer Ekaterinas now since the Clue Hunt was already past, but the young Rosenbloom can't help being a bit…intimidated. He'd been informed that they were exceptional when it comes to computers and inventions and other electronic stuff, and he felt a little insecure about what they would think of history geek extraordinaire Atticus Rosenbloom who delighted in dusty ancient relics. But then he would have to swallow this sudden insecurity, no matter how much he didn't want to admit that he was even intimidated in the first place. He'd need an expert internet researcher in his small group of amateur investigators if he wanted to solve his qualms about the Mystery Syndrome, and the Starlings were the only option he had. So here goes—

_Knock, knock._

The three boys, Atticus, Dan, and Phoenix, waited, until a boy's voice called out for their permissible entrance. Atticus, Dan, and Phoenix entered the dark room as the wooden door slowly hissed obediently, sliding to the side by itself to welcome the newcomers.

Atticus suppressed an impressed gasp. The Starlings even managed to make their doors electronic, even for just a little time in their stay here in the Cahill Manor.

"What brings the three musketeers to the Starlings' quarters?" said Ned Starling, whirling around from his computer in his swivel chair to face them with a smile. He barely recognized them (he knew Atticus from a brief introduction, and Phoenix because of his acquaintance with his brother Ted when they were once held as hostages) but he was fully acknowledging of Dan. He looked at the self-proclaimed ninja with curious but welcoming eyes.

"Anything I could help you with?"

* * *

They waited until the sound of Ian's footsteps can no longer be heard, the door of the kitchen slowly swinging to a stop after he had silently left the dining hall. A few more seconds of awkward silence lingered, putting everyone else on the edge and not knowing what to do.

"So…" Jonah started, picking onto the limp vegetable that rested on his plate. He clearly had no idea how to handle a painfully awkward situation, looking at the door and down his plate and then his cousins and the door again. He didn't know what just happened, but from the looks of it, it must have been something serious. Amy especially had that worried look over her eyes as she longingly stared at the door, as if wanting to get up and talk to Ian but not having enough strength to even stand up. Jonah cleared his throat, pushed the plate away from him, and stood up slowly.

"Uh, so yeah, I, uh…I think I gotta go." He gestured with his hand, pointing to the direction behind as he tentatively walked backward. "My Pop's calling me for, y'know the stuff, show-business." He chuckled, but it obviously sounded forced. He stopped chuckling when he realized that none of his comrades were sharing his forced enthusiasm, so he just cleared his throat instead. "Hey, uh…Hamburger. You comin'?"

"Nope," said Hamilton with a wave of his hand, clearly unaware of the tension as he was only focused on one thing and one thing only—the lamb chops on his plate, enticing him with their crispy, spicy, definitely pretty aroma that wafted through his nose. _Mmm, meaty just meaty._ He had a date with these beautiful lamb chops. "Have fun with y—"

" _Ahem_ ," said Jonah, giving an edge in his voice that told Ham that he was coming with him whether he liked it or not.

Ham cringed at the slightly menacing glare that the Wizard was giving him, and he knew that Jonah meant seriousness, which was a rarity. So he slightly sulked, pushed back his chair, and stood up.

"Whatever you say, man."

The twosome left the dining table with the bulky Tomas muttering about the delicious meal left on the table. When they finally left, Sinead got to her full height, and dutifully announced her leave as well.

"You know," she told the two remaining people, Nellie and Amy. "I…think I'm going to have to go too…there's still this research paper I have to finish, so yeah…."

Nellie smiled up at her, a signal in her eyes that she got this under control. "Go ahead, kiddo."

Sinead briefly summoned up a smile in return, and nearly raced her way out for the door.

Once alone, Nellie spoke.

"Amy," she started, putting a gentle hand onto her kiddo's to let her know she was still there. "You can tell me."

At that, finally, all sorts of masks onto Amy's rigid face peeled off and fell hostage to the ground. She sighed heavily, and slumped herself all over the table, pushing her food out the way, no longer interested in eating whatsoever as the flood of stresses waved over like a colossal tsunami. She hadn't felt this so stressed out—not in the way of saving-the-world-from-imminent-death-and-destruction kind of thing, but in that strangely normal way that teenagers go through in this specific stage of their life that people call adolescence.

One would think that after having been put through the throes of death itself in her entire life, she can handle teen problems like a piece of cake. But, at this moment, she had no idea it would be just as stressful.

"Oh, Nellie…" she said, the stress evident in her gruff tone of voice. "I don't know what to do. Jake's m-m-mad and I don't know how to explain it to him—" her face suddenly reddened furiously as she remembered the events of the day, and threw her hands over her face to cover her sheer embarrassment— "and Ian…well…he's another story. I wouldn't ever figure out what's going through that man's brain. I don't know if I should feel angry at him, or pity him, or—or n-neutral, maybe, or what! Maybe I shouldn't even care, but…"

Then she shook her head desperately, clearly in the midst of breaking down. Nellie stood up, put a hand onto her shoulder comfortingly, and said motherly words that she thought her kiddo would need for the moment.

"There, there," she said, patting Amy's back, almost as if Amy was crying, which she wasn't. Amy looked up, momentarily forgetting her dilemma, and stared at Nellie with a weird look onto her face that said 'What's the sudden affection all about, Nell?' which Nellie mistook as a look that said 'Thank you for being a mother to me when I need it, Nellie.' At this, the former au pair let herself feast upon a little smile. "It will be alright, Ames. It will be all right."

Amy let herself another sigh. "I don't know how to deal with the both of them."

"Boys, pfft," Nellie snorted, making a funny sound that sounded almost like the snort of a pig. "They make you laugh, they make you cry. You're awesome, Amy, remember that. So you must not let not-so-awesome boys like Kabra and Rosenbloom make your life not the un-awesome life it is. You have to shoo them away if they make your life not-so-awesome, which it isn't, because the status of extreme awesomeness can only be achieved when you go out with people that influence your awesomeness for the better." Then Nellie stopped and blinked at that. "Wow. I really thought I was going somewhere with that."

"My life? _Awesome_?" Amy pointed a finger at herself, and burst laughing out loud. "Please, Nellie. You know I've gone through so many tragedies that make a thousand reasons as to why my life is _not_ —"

Nellie wagged a finger at her face, making an a-tut-tutting sound to clam her up. And it did, successfully. Now old-and-wise Nellie continued on with her speech, lowering her voice to a level to make it sound as if she was about to say something serious. She leaned over to Amy's face, and Amy had to wonder where all of these affections are suddenly coming from.

"Kiddo." Nellie's tone was dead serious, and Amy gulped at the way her eyes seemed to bear deeply into hers. Her palms started sweating, and she didn't know why, but a small burst of nervousness from inside of her suddenly spread throughout her body to make her feel a little scared of what Nellie was about to say. When Nellie was serious, Nellie was _serious_ —a fact enough to make Amy feel a little…frightened.

"Y-Yes?" she managed to stutter out, the distance between her and Nellie's face starting to get a little less than comfortable. Far from it.

Nellie sighed one of the heaviest sighs that ever crawled on Earth. Then she put both her hands onto Amy's shoulders, pressing her down as if not wanting her to get out of her grasp as she tried stuffing her next words into her little kiddo's skull. "Jake told me all about it, and I understand. Human emotions can't be controlled, they are just there, manipulating you to move without you even knowing—and whatever you did, yes, it was a sin, a very, _very_ grave sin, since you're not even married yet, but think about this—you're still just a human, Amy, no matter how I say how awesome you are, which, incredibly, you are."

Amy arched an eyebrow in confusion, wondering what she was talking about. When Nellie acknowledged that look, she waved it away like she was merely swatting a fly.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, me and my profound sappiness," she said, clearly hating the way she talked like a preacher or something. "But look. If you can't handle it, you have to remember that you have me over here. I'd be glad to babysit and help you raise those little kiddos of yours while they grow up."

" _What?_ " Amy cocked her head to the side, etched onto her face a look of true, solid, rock-hard confusion, bewilderment, and utter perplexity. "What do you mean? What are you talking abo…" Her voice trailed off, and, suddenly, a look of horror replaced that confusion as she was dawned by the realization. Face reddening madly, she stood up, pounded her fist onto the table, and shouted at her unbelievable nanny so loud that Nellie had to slightly back away in bewilderment.

" _Nellie_!" Amy shouted, embarrassed and mad. "It's not—! It's not like—! I-I-It's n-not _like_ that!"

"What?!" Now it was Nellie's turn to be confused. The skin over her eyebrows wrinkled as she fought her way through the numerous possibilities that swarmed inside her head, struggling for a way out. "You mean—you—y-you, you…" She hadn't been in turmoil with her words ever since she had been a teenager. She pointed a confused finger of accusation at Amy, a flood of shock overcoming her _indescribably_ shocked face.

"You mean…you and Ian… _aren't_ …?"

Amy was blushing when she nodded 'yes'.

"You mean…the two of you…" Nellie, however, still couldn't seem to grasp it. "You _don't_? For realz? Like, you really do _not_?"

Amy threw her arms out in the air, frustrated, embarrassed, unsure of how else she was to react at an incredibly awkward situation like this. "Of course we don't, come _on_ , Nellie, please!" Then she went back to her chair, jammed herself right into it, and buried her face into her folded hands. Ugh. So _that_ was what the tension was all about. They were all thinking the same thing—the _wrong_ thing. What kind of rumour had Jake spread now about her and Ian? Now she had to fix her reputation in front of her cousins who now thought she was a damsel in distress with far too many boys to deal with. She thought they had been tensing over something else—but _this_? This, oh, no, she never expected _this_. But what _did_ she expect, really? She had to know that Jake spreading a story from _his_ point of view would never really come out pretty.

Especially if the story wasn't really pretty in the first place if seen at first sight.

As Amy stayed buried inside her thoughts for the moment, she heard Nellie say a small, faltering little "Oh," as she _finally_ realized the truth that Jake's rumours weren't really true. Amy had to suppress another frustrated groan at this. Was she just thinking it, or did she hear a small tinge of disappointment in Nellie's voice?

"So…" Nellie started slowly, trying to regain life in their conversation once again. "So then, what did Jake tell me?" Now she sounded a little haughty, eyebrow arched, arms crossed. "Mind telling me in detail?"

Amy fixed with her a look that was clearly saying that _she_ was the one supposed to be asking questions here, not Nellie. "What _did_ Jake tell you?"

"Well, he told me that when he saw that Ian's room was empty, he got a little suspicious, and that's when he opened the door and saw you and Ian sleeping together—"

"Stop." Amy had one finger pressed onto her forehead, eyes closed as if trying to shut out the world away from her mind. The context was just so ugly she couldn't even bear hearing it. "Just…just stop." She had had enough of this conversation already. "Okay? I don't want to hear another word of it. Forget it. I still have to worry about coming up with an excuse."

"Not an excuse, Ames," Nellie said, sternly. "The truth."

"But he won't listen!"

"I'll take care of slapping that truth smack dab in the middle of his face myself if you tell me, kiddo, and I _don't_ care about how handsome a chap your boyfriend thinks he is," she scolded. "Now tell me, what happened?"

Amy's eyes contemplated at the cup of swirling water she had beside her for a minute, and sighed. "It's about…it's about Ian." Nellie almost gasped, but before she did so, Amy shot her a glare. "And _not_ what you think."

Nellie put her lips behind her mouth and gestured to Amy with a wave of her fingers to move on.

"I'm just getting a l-little worried," Amy said. "He's been acting … _weirdly_ , lately, and that's still an understatement. He goes on and off from time to time, and I thought at first that he's just spacing out for a little bit, but now…I don't think so." She twirled a strand of her red hair distractedly before continuing on. "We've all been through hard times. And out of all people, I least expected Ian to be…you know. To be like _this_. To be so depressed. I've always looked at him as a shatterproof person, but now I've never seen a person more broken than he is. In a way, I do understand his grief, but…he should try getting out of his shell for a while, or he's going to get himself into dangerous waters."

"…you mean…?"

Amy nodded. "We have to let him know we're here with him, or else he might just…take his own life away." She took in a shaky breath, as if merely saying those very words were going to make it all come true. She remembered that she had witnessed first-hand how Ian would really not hesitate once he set his mind on it—he'd almost _killed_ her, for heaven's sake, and it frightened her. She hadn't told Nellie or the others about this, and she wasn't planning to. Ian had enough on his shoulders, and he didn't need his family mistrusting him. It didn't matter to Amy how he'd almost murdered her—all that mattered to Amy was that…was that he would be healed from his wounds already.

"I-I…I don't want to lose another family member. I just can't…I just can't bear it anymore. I'm done with my family being taken away from me one by one, you know? There must be _something_ I could do to at least save the one who I can save."

Nellie's face scrunched up in focus. "Now that I think about it…"

Amy immediately shot up from her seat. "What? What are you thinking about?"

"I don't think it's just Ian turning on and off from reality, or spacing out like you said," Nellie uttered slowly. "I think he's getting a little, I don't know, maybe out of his mind? Like, literally. Like, cray-cray and all that. He hadn't been like this just since yesterday, had he?"

"Yesterday? What about yesterday?"

"Well, yesterday…" she was tapping her chin as she recounted the memory. "Yesterday, we saw Ian chasing after something that's not even there. He's even _shouting_ after it. He looked delusional, and that is not an exaggeration. You should've seen it. It was totally out of character of him."

"It all started _yesterday_?" Amy demanded with a sudden volume in her voice that startled Nellie a little.

"Well, yeah," she shrugged nonchalantly, brushing that fact away. "As far as I can think of." Then she curiously leaned forward to examine Amy's suddenly different face. "Why the sudden…?"

But her words were lost as Amy plunged herself into the depths of her own thoughts, horrification dawning on her, swallowing her, consuming her like fire.

The article that she'd read on the morning paper. Didn't it say something like….

_Interestingly, though, it was all exactly three days after they have bought their mirrors from the auction that they have died their deaths._

" _Yesterday, we saw Ian chasing after something that's not even there."_

" _Please. Don't leave me alone, Natalie…"_

" _I think…I think he has the Mystery Syndrome."_

 _Atticus was right_.

_Ian has the Mystery Syndrome._

"The Mystery Syndrome…" Amy breathed out, and she felt something awful constrict around her throat, gripping it in a suffocating vice-like grip that made her release her hitching breaths in panicked, shaky bouts of apprehension. She had to grab at the edge of the table to keep her from falling flat onto the floor, the dread sinking into the pits of her stomach, threatening to make her throw up any minute now.

… _it was all exactly three days after they have bought their mirrors from the auction that they have died their respective deaths._

_Three days…_

… _died their respective deaths._

… _three days…_

… _deaths._

Amy was now breathing so heavily that it started to worry her au pair. But Nellie Gomez was thousands of miles away from where Amy currently stood right now. Her thoughts were beginning to muddle, like a thousand bees stinging her mind and demanding her attention, but she couldn't focus, couldn't think properly, confused and dazzled at the amount of buzzing little noises inside her suddenly-chaotic head that she didn't know what to do. Nellie got up from her seat and shook Amy on the shoulders.

"Kiddo, calm down! What's wrong so suddenly that you—"

Amy turned her face sharply at Nellie, a horror-stricken look painted over her shaking face.

"H-He…he…h-h-he…" she spluttered helplessly.

"Come on, kiddo, you can do better than that," Nellie reprimanded. "Spill it!"

She heaved a large gulp of air, and now tried to steady herself and keep her from stammering—it wasn't going to make things any better, but certainly things can't be worse...can they?

"He…" Amy's eyes were haunted with horror. "…he only has one day left."

* * *

"Looks like we've succeeded through phase one of your plan," Dan announced after they got out of the Starlings' room. Then when he observed Atticus' utterly sour face, he burst out laughing. "Come on, dude, don't let _him_ get to you!"

Atticus nodded. "I'm not." Simply speaking, Atticus' first meeting with Ned had not been pleasant. "We just needed him to research about what those people did in that auction, and what in particular they really did buy."

"But you said you already knew that they bought some fancy mirrors?"

"Yes, but I needed some confirmation if those mirrors are actually one of the Seven Mirrors. Next thing we need to do now is to see if Ian has one of them. That would make sense since Ian's already the _seventh_ victim…"

As they were walking down the halls, and after the trailing voice of Atticus disappeared into the air and slowly sank into Dan's mind, he put his arm forward to stop Atticus and Phoenix from walking any further.

"Wait a minute, hold on." Dan was thinking, his brows scrunched up so bad Atticus thought his skin might just peel off. "Something…something doesn't add up here."

The two gave him confused looks.

"What doesn't?"

Dan turned to look at Atticus. Gravely.

"Don't tell me you don't see the insanity of this," he began. "You'd think it would be the rational Atticus Rosenbloom who'd be the one running around and proclaiming to the world that _mirrors don't cause diseases._ I mean, unless they have a living bacteria trapped in it or something. But I couldn't believe that it would be I, the infamous master of the ultimate jiujutsu, awesomesauce ninja sensei Dan Cahill, would actually be the one who'd think that this whole thing is absolutely crazy. I mean, mirrors don't cause diseases, or curses, or any of that matter!"

Atticus put a finger onto his temple and shook his head. "You weren't listening to the story I told you and Phoenix earlier, were you?"

"Er, no, because you were too boring."

Atticus glared at him.

"—and irrational!" Dan quickly added. "The story of the Seven Mirrors or whatever was boring _and_ irrational. I mean, ancient magic spells and magic mirrors? Come _on_ ; you, Atticusius Rosenbloomus, _can't_ be serious about believing those kinds of fairy-tale stuff about mysticisimajigs. If you are, we have a psychiatrist's number in the directory—"

"Dan." Atticus smiled up at his best friend instead of giving him a scolding look, and it suddenly felt as if he was older than his blond-haired videogame addicted best friend when the Rosenbloom started speaking in a wise-kind-of tone. "Not all things must have historical or scientific evidence to be real. You of all people should know. Because, in a way, these things…they're just…they're just real."

Just as he believed that his mother is still alive. Just as he believed that the ghost of his mother is still by his side, everyday, being his personal Guardian, with his every step guiding him to his path towards his future.

_Just as he believed that she would always be there._

The look of his eyes turned distant, looking at a faraway memory, and Dan thought he saw some sort of mist covering the surface of his eyes.

And that's when Dan let his friend's words sink in.

_You of all people should know. Because…they're just…real._

"Okay then, Att," Dan said. "Now what do we do?"

Atticus' face brightened like the sun. "Now we figure out if Ian has one of the mirrors. Then we destroy it."

"Um," Phoenix started, raising his hand up as if he were reciting from class. "If we want to figure out if Ian does have it, does that mean we get to… _sneak_ into his room?"

"Yeah." Atticus gave Phoenix a tentative smile, unsure of how the young Wizard was going to take it if this were a bad moral to do or not. Of Dan, though, Atticus need not worry about that. He just pumped his fist into the air as if it were the most awesome thing that he'd ever been allowed to do inside the house.

" _Schweet_!"

A pause settled over the group as they started walking down the hall again, intending to reach Ian's room and start the search for the mirror. Dan started fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. He opened his mouth to say something, but—

"Out with it, Dan," Atticus said as he shook his head. "What is it?"

"Uh…heh-heh…" He chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his head with an awkward hand. "Can you tell the legend of the Seven Mirrors again? Because I _really_ wasn't listening when you told us earlier, so yeah…"

Atticus actually smiled. But the smile was crooked.

"I thought you might say that."

* * *

_The Story of the Seven Sisters  
London, England  
The late 1500s_

Glinda was one of Esmeralda Godfrey's seven daughters.

Esmeralda the sorceress usually had this habit of giving her children one mirror as their birthday gift whenever they turned seven years old. This time, the youngest of the sisters, Glinda, was the one who received her gift—but she was disappointed that she wasn't able to spend the day with her. That was because her mother, the famous sorceress and fortune-teller Esmeralda Godfrey, had been called upon by King Marcosias the Sixth to his castle in the purpose of wanting to hear his glorious future as a king.

But the seven sisters were getting a little worried. Usually their mother would only take three hours whenever she was tasked to tell someone's future. But their mother had been out for _three days._ Well, yes, their humble house, which was secluded and isolated from the town proper itself, was half a day away from the castle if it would be taken by walk. But their mother wouldn't take three whole days just to be a king's fortune-teller for a mere few hours, right?

Wrong. She would never. And Glinda was sure that her older sisters were getting worried as well, despite how much they tried to hide it just for their younger sisters' sake. However, as time grew, the seven sisters started to show their worry. Agnes, the oldest, kept pacing back and forth like a restless groundhog, occasionally peeking out of their dark windows to check if their mother was already near in sight. No such luck. Blair, the second oldest, had her head buried in a book in efforts of trying to ignore the continually passing time without their mother in the house. Clementine, the third and the calmest of all, continued knitting her mittens whilst she sang a gentle song to hide her real anxiety. Eleanor and Felicia, identical twins, took turns asking their sporty older sister Diana—who was getting annoyed being disturbed in doing her push-ups—where their mother was. Only Glinda, the youngest, was stuck in a corner, watching her elders fret as she caressed the delicate golden handle of her newest golden mirror.

Their mirrors had a colour theme. What Agnes had gotten for her birthday was a golden mirror, as well, only with an amber-coloured, topaz gem in the middle. Blair had an amethyst, a beautiful purple gem. The gem on each girl's mirror actually represented their birthstones, and, Glinda, having been born in January, had a red, garnet gem emblazoned on hers. Their mother said it was for luck, and, no matter what, the daughters weren't allowed to sell their mirrors in exchange for anything because, according to her, their mirrors were _enchanted._ Although the sisters had never really come to an agreement to believe their mother's 'bewitching' power, they just assumed that her approach was typical of a woman practicing witchcraft.

Suddenly, the sound of a number of horses' hooves can be heard from outside. Agnes, Courtney, Diana, Eleanor, and Felicia immediately got up and ran to the door, all excited to greet their mother in case that was the royal highness' horses escorting their mother back home because of a job well done. Even Blair looked up from her book, which was unlike her—because most of the time, she can't even hear anything else when she reads. Glinda got up from the carpet and started to dust off the dirt from her dress. All seven of them stood in front of the door, waiting for it to open to reveal their mother.

But once the horses arrived and the knights started dismounting themselves, the seven sisters nervously looked at each other, fearing that their mother was not there. Suddenly the doors barged open, revealing the said knights wearing red and white uniforms and helmets with colourful feathers that symbolized their rank. There were five of them. One of them, the leader, as the anxious girls assumed, held a scroll in his hand.

"Um…where is…where is our mother?" asked Agnes, the only one of them who found the courage to speak.

The knight ignored her. "Is this the house of the late sorceress Esmeralda Godfrey?"

"Well…y-yes," stuttered Blair.

"So you mean that the sisters were actually named from the letters A to G?"

This question was blurted out from Dan.

Atticus and Phoenix groaned and shook their heads miserably. Atticus merely continued the story.

* * *

"What can we help you with?" calmly asked Clementine to the fierce-looking guards, who was in unison with Diana's demanding "What do you want?"

"W-We are just—" Eleanor started with a quavering voice.

"—the Godfrey s-sisters," Felicia finished with a trembling tone.

The knight cleared his throat upon hearing the confirmation to his question. "His Majesty, the mighty ruler of England, King Marcosias, has sent me to hereby decree to the royal sorceress Esmeralda Godfrey's seven daughters of her failure to please His Highness with her fortune-telling. She had received her punishment yesterday afternoon, through the executional process of beheading." The knight stopped reading from his giant scroll, and looked at the shocked faces of the girls he was so amused to smirk at. "Ladies, your mother is dead."

* * *

The room was dark, and the sky outside was grouchy and upset. The six of the sisters sat on the floor, and waited until Agnes was finished on drawing a circle with an enchanted chalk they had obtained from their mother's cabinet of witchcraft. After she finished, Clementine drew a seven-pointed star with a white chalk, its pointy edges coming in contact with the circle. Diana solemnly placed one candle on each side of the star, and Eleanor and Felicia helped each other light up each of the white candles. The orange flames gave the dark room an eerie illumination, making the dark shadows that danced across the room seem even darker, and their depressed, sorrowful faces to look even more downcast. And, lastly, Blair dutifully opened a dusty, book of sorcery that had once belonged to their mother, and put the open book, Sefer Hazor, on the centre of the star.

All of them nodded to each other once the setting required for the spell they were about to perform was complete. Each girl drew out her mirror from behind where she was sitting, and placed it on its respective spot around the star. Agnes's topaz, Blair's amethyst, Clementine's diamond, Diana's sapphire, Eleanor and Felicia's opals, and, finally, Glinda's garnet, once all put together, a chilly wind suddenly blew their identical raven hair of varying length, even though all windows and doors were shut close. A cold essence fell down on each of them, sending cold shivers down their spines. They looked at each other, each thinking the same thing.

_It's working._

Blair took this as her cue. She turned one brittle leaf of the Sefer Hazor very carefully, and started to read a passage on the delicate yellow page.

"It is us, the Godfrey sisters—"

She was suddenly interrupted when a crackle of lightning was spat from the thundering night sky.

All seven of them looked out the window, afraid that their humble home would burst into flames of lightning very soon. Just then Agnes urged Blair to continue.

Blair gulped. Then she read again, "It is us, the Go—"

Their curtain was whipped out by the strong winds blowing from outside their home. Glinda got up to shut their window and she immediately sat down with her sisters.

Blair gulped for the second time. But this time, Agnes took her hand and nodded at her. The oldest sister then proceeded to hold the hand of Clementine, who looked up at the nodding Agnes. This urged them all to hold each sister hand to hand, forming from themselves a tight circle around the candles. Nodding to each other, all of them, with a united voice which sought for reprisal, read—

"We, the Godfrey sisters, confidently call upon the spirit of the third Norn sister, one of the Fates, the demigoddess and queen of the past, your majesty, Urd. We heed to summon your divine spirit to grace us with your majestic presence, dearest Urd, in hopes of granting us your power to help feed our desire for revenge."

Then, Glinda, who hadn't uttered a single word ever since the knights came and left, whispered in a voice that was positively, frighteningly silent and deadly—hissing the words out in utter anger…like that of a vengeful snake.

"We want revenge against King Marcosias the Sixth, our mother's killer."

The sisters held each other's hands more tightly when they said their next curse words.

" _As'fnea er T'fclor!"_

* * *

"The seven sisters called upon Urd, the Norse demigoddess of the past," Atticus was saying as he led the group toward Ian's room. "They asked for her power to curse their seven mirrors. Once they had black magic in the mirrors, they all went to the palace the next day to give the golden mirrors to King Marcosias, pretending they were gifts. But next thing they knew, the king was dead in three days. No one knows why, but this Norse legend says that the mere possession of the mirror will automatically remind you of your terrible past, mirroring everything tragic that ever happened to you, even plague you with guilt and whatnot, until you get delusional and die on the third day, either through suicide or unexplained phenomenon."

"You mean…you mean he died…?" Phoenix asked. "The king actually…d- _died_ because of the mirrors' curse? Just because they want revenge?"

"That is sick," Dan said. "And I mean both disgusting and awesome."

Atticus shrugged, as if also trying to shake the tension that suddenly surrounded them as he finished retelling the legend. He himself had felt the chills when he'd read this legend on his book earlier. "Of course no one has confirmation this is true. It's called a _legend_ for a reason. The mirrors were dispersed throughout the lands as centuries went by, and there were claims that the curse affected several people, but nope, there really is no proof. Eventually the mirrors were collected by a, well, a collector, and then it somehow ended up in an auction, which leads us here. But how can a mirror cause disease, you ask? No, I do not know, although the legend that I've read in The Ancient Folktales of Norse Mythology suggests that it _might_ be a curse from long ago. But who knows, really? It _is_ just a legend, after all."

"Oooo-kay, I think…I think I get it…maybe?" Phoenix looked up from the floor as the trio stopped in front of Ian's room. "So that means we sneak into his room?" He seemed as if he wasn't used to sneaking up on someone else's room, even though he was born with Cahill blood. "Search every corner? To see if he has one of the mirrors, and then shatter it, boom, it's all finished?"

The young Rosenbloom grabbed the doorknob of Ian's door and twisted it. "Urd was a powerful goddess in the myths—her dark magic won't easily be shattered like that. We'll have to figure out how to destroy it without making things any worse. It's ridiculous, yes, but magic wouldn't be called 'magic' if it isn't."

And then the threesome stepped into Ian's dimly-lit room to start their search.

* * *

Ned was furiously typing names and clicking on links on his laptop, the radiant glow of the screen covering the Starling's face with an eerie blue light that was highlighted more intensely by the dark blanket of the room. His eyes were focused, his mind trying to grip all sorts of possibilities that came up in front of the screen in a cascading spill of information that would be too head-aching for a non-Ekaterina.

" _So you want me to…research about these people?" Ned said with a confused look, holding the newspaper in his hands. He scanned his eyes over today's issue of the morning paper, and saw a list of names in Atticus'—probably Dan's?—scrappy handwriting in the margins._

_1\. Karl Miranda, 47 years old [Portuguese tourist]  
2\. Lakshmi Yamano, 38 y.o. [Indian]  
3\. RJ M. Calvenriala, 14 y.o. [Filipino]  
4\. Linda Witherspoon, 24 y.o. [native Londoner]  
5\. Akira Niyama, 9 y.o. [Japanese]  
6\. Liana _ _Andrés, 16 y.o. [French]_

_And Ned immediately recognized the names. They were all over the international news. Last night it was announced that Akira Niyama, the fifth victim, hadn't made it out of this disease alive. Liana Andrés was the only living victim left._

" _Hey, aren't these the victims of the—what was that?—the Whodunit Syndrome?"_

" _The Mystery Syndrome," Phoenix helpfully pointed out._

" _Yes, you're right," Atticus confirmed. "I need you to research about their recent whereabouts before they got sick and…well…before they died. Investigators say they've been in an auction, and from there they bought mirrors of the same collection. Mind tracking the auction house's database and see what they really bought in that auction house? I think there might be something that could connect us from there…"_

_Ned looked sceptical as he crossed his arms and arched an eyebrow. "Are you saying that an ancient relic could connect to a futuristic disease that even the most advanced of doctors can't figure out? You have got to be kidding me. The past and the future don't connect."_

" _Yes, they do!" Atticus sounded hurt. "There's a term named history for a reason!"_

" _And there's a term named 'science' for, sorry to say this bud, a more_ reasonable _reason."_

 _Atticus seemed like he wanted to lash out at him again. Today, oh, today, TODAY is the day when he had just made a new enemy. History was his expertise, and how dare this—this scientific_ cretin _insult_ his _field of knowledge, his pride, his only treasure? But the young Rosenbloom managed to calm himself down, and struggled as he let the words out of his mouth as politely as his shaking lips ever could. "How about you just look at my favour as a challenge? You know, to see if you can do it?"_

" _I'm Ned Starling," he said with a proud puff of his chest. "I'm up for any sort of challenge."_

" _So it's a deal, then?"_

" _You bet."_

Ned clicked on another link, and immediately it opened to a new tab and saw another one of those _We Will Miss You, Liana!_ sites. It was all over the net. Condolences for the recently-announced death of that last victim, Liana Andrés, just a few hours ago. Ned sighed, closed the window, and started on another search, fingers flying over the keyboard furiously. As far as he knew, none of the six victims had yet survived this oh-so-dreaded disease they call the Mystery Syndrome.

But the pieces are starting to fall into place in his head as he absorbed the information from the ends of his fingertips. And, strangely, his avid, nonstop researching led him to this article about the Legend of the Seven Mirrors. It said something about seven sisters with ridiculous names that had initials from A to G, and he'd been bored to tears. What he was interested—or what _any_ Ekaterina was interested, for that matter—was facts about the present, the future, and _not_ the non-scientific past. Although he knew a few names, like Poseidon or Thor or Loki or stuff like that, he wasn't even into mythology. But when he hacked the database of the auction from downtown London as Atticus had said and instructed, he felt that natural excitement streaming in and out of his veins just as he typically did whenever he felt like his endless research was finally coming to a conclusion.

The mirrors from the legend. The mirrors from the auction house.

It _couldn't_ be.

But they had to be connected.

He copied and pasted the content of the webpage all over his word processor, clicked on Ctrl P, and grabbed the printed material as he sprinted out of his room—ready to give the information to his newfound friend, Atticus Rosenbloom.

Perhaps the past and future could connect after all.

* * *

"…and then he was like, 'I demand to see Urd from your Twilight Coffee staff! Like, right this very instant!'" Dan was saying, standing up with abnormally squared shoulders as he poorly impersonated the British accent of Ian Kabra to make it sound more like the ridiculous snort of a pig. "And then _we_ were all like 'Huh?' and then Jonah was like 'Dude!' and Nellie was like 'Have you gone bonkers?' and Saladin was like 'Mrrp,' and the waitress named Maria was like 'There is no Urd in our staff, monsieur-mister-dude, now sit down like a good Cobra!' and I was like—"

"Wait." Atticus looked up from searching under Ian's bed, which earned him a bump from the edge, but he was quick to recover as he caressed his slightly pained head with a gentle touch of his hand. So far, the three of them hadn't yet succeeded in finding that blasted mirror. He looked at Dan's eyes, still cringing from the pain and shooting sideways daggers at the cursed bed. "Wait a minute, Dan. What did you say again?"

Phoenix talked for the first time as he closed the doors of Ian's wardrobe, having found no mirror hidden in there. "Ian blurted out to them to bring out this 'Urd' from their staff, and all of us looked at him strangely, because apparently there wasn't even someone named Urd; and what kind of a parent would name their child like that, anyway? People without an artistic sense, maybe, but then—oh." Light suddenly dawned on Phoenix as he realized what he just said. "Oh!" he said in excitement, jumping up and down as it fixed its place firmly inside the puzzle in his head. "So that's it! Urd! The Norse demigoddess of the past, from the legend you just told us, Atticus! Ian was having delusions of _Urd_ at that time!"

But that realization only brought upon many other questions than answers. "But does that mean…the curse? Of the seven mirrors?" Phoenix suddenly looked utterly terrified. "They're _real_?"

"That is actually not the question here," Atticus said gravely. "The question is how we stop the curse from completely killing its owner."

"Uh, hel- _lo_?" Dan snarkily said. "How are we going to stop it if we can't even find it? But then—wait a minute…oh, oh yeah! Here it is! Oh, I found it! _Sweet_!" Dan pulled out a mirror from the compartment of a small bedside drawer, shooing away a piece of weird, floating white petal that came with it. Then, victorious, Dan held out the golden mirror in front of him, the red gem placed on the old, ancient-looking relic seeming to glint even more brightly and intensely as if it had sensed Dan's touch. Dan was about to jump into the air and announce that he had triumphantly won their race of finding where Ian's mirror was, but he was stopped—by some unexplainable force. His twinkling green eyes were instantly grabbed by a compelling entity that forced him to look at his reflection first—and that was when he felt like he couldn't put the mirror down.

He stared at his unblinking reflection, the seconds seeming to blindly pass him by as he took in the rather marvellous sight. There was an ochre, iridescent glow glinting _inside_ the mirror as if the blazing fires of hell itself had been trapped behind the sheen of reflecting glass. The ghostly elements of molten gold scintillated mystically from inside of it, distorting his reflection in an… _inexpressively_ , for the lack of a better term, odd but enchanting way. He felt as if there was some hidden force in there, a smooth, calm, feminine voice, soft but strangely relentless, that called out to him, gently coaxing him, _enticing_ him, luring him in, willing him to fall into an illusion and tempting him to sleep for an eternity, a satisfyingly deep, dreamless sleep. It was so tempting, so _tempting_ , he wanted to say yes, he wanted to _fall_ into that sleep, and never, never, _never_ wake up ever again…

_Flames._

_That was all he could remember._

_The cold wet grass under his feet were penetrating through his pyjamas, piercing that natural warmth of his skin as all the happiness of his world was chased away by the sinister laughing of the devouring darkness. He didn't know what was happening, but he could_ feel _what was happening, and he sensed that the next events would not be pretty. His eyes hurt and reddened, the glistening tears hanging onto his eyelashes, the roaring of the violently licking flames in front of him distinctly reflected the sheen of moist that covered his eyes._

_The face of his mother was crying, and as she let go of her young son's hand, she ran, away from them, away from her children, and Dan felt his sister grab at him to prevent him from running after their mother._

" _Ma-ma!" young Dan cried out, desperately, hopelessly,_ _flailing his arms forward as if reaching for something, as if frantically trying to grab at something, but only succeeding in seizing at empty air. He drunkenly stumbled forwards, but even as his world was starting to spin, even as he heard the voice of his sister in the background, calling him to go back, he willed with all his heart to steel his legs and get up, get up, get_ , up _, chase after his mother who running towards her death—_

" _Dan!" his sister shouted at him. "Dan, come back!"_

_But he wasn't listening. Eyes still pouring out a river of tears, the young, three-year-old boy crawled forward, toward the roaring thunder of flames._

" _Dan!" his sister shouted again, but he wasn't going back around. He still had to save his mother. "Dan, let it go!"_

_But…but no._

" _Let it go, this instant!"_

_That wasn't his sister's voice. It wasn't._

" _Dan!"_

_It…wasn't?_

" _Let it_ go! _"_

_But then if it wasn't, then who did that voice belong to? And why…why did it sound so much like…_

" _DAN!_ " shrieked Atticus. "Let go of that mirror!"

The flow of memories stopped as Dan was yanked back to reality. Dan's feet wobbled, and he felt himself almost crash against the floor if he hadn't quickly grabbed onto the surface of the drawer to support himself. His breathing was hitched, he felt his eyes watering, and his vision was swirling and swirling until he didn't know what was up and down anymore. He was asking himself one question—

What the heck was _that?_

Meanwhile, Atticus had grabbed the mirror from Dan's hand, his light touch on the golden handle sending a strange spark flowing from the mirror to his fingertips, travelling up to his arm and spreading everywhere else, like a poison injected into his body. In his mind, images of his delusional mother, lying on her bed, talking to him, singing to him, crying to him and smiling at him, flashed in high definition that he almost wanted to give in—and be in that world once again where he could be with his mother and touch her hand one last time, telling her that it would all be alright. But he wouldn't. That was the past, and no matter how much willpower he had inside of himself, how much he wished that it never happened at all, he'd never be able to change it. He would treasure the memories, yes, but it was pointless on _dwelling_ on them. There was a difference, and he intended to keep it that way.

The Rosenbloom firmly shut his eyes close as he violently flung the cursed thing out the window with all his might, knowing fully well from his mythological research about the effects of possessing even just one of the Seven Mirrors. Whether the curse was true or not, well, it really was a profound question. But no matter how rational a person could be, it cannot be denied that there are strange, unexplained phenomenon happening in this strange world of ours that crawled of diverse elements. It only depended on the person if he or she was to believe these mysticisms, and Atticus, no matter how unlikely it is for him, would say a positive 'yes'—yes, the curse was _true_.

The three of them stood quietly as they waited for the sound of the mirror to crash into pieces when it hit the ground.

But they never did hear it.

"What th—hey!" a muffled voice from outside the door made the threesome jerk their heads behind their backs. Phoenix dutifully stepped forward to open the door, revealing Ned who was out of his breath from running, holding his chest as if checking if his heart was still there. When Ned saw the three of the kids staring at him curiously, the Starling pointed to the floor accusatively.

"That—that _thing!_ " he shrilled. "It just fell from the ceiling!"

Shocked eyes fell onto the culprit, staring at it blankly for several seconds of quiet.

"Whoa," was all Dan could say, deeply appalled and not knowing how else to react. "That… _thing_ …"

"I know," Atticus replied.

…and the mirror's golden glint, harsh and sinister, seemed to smirk at them all for their utter foolishness.


	8. The Shattered Ambers

It tasted horrible.

The liquid was trapped in his throat and he ran for the sink to throw it all up. It was revolting, both the act and the beverage. His hand fumbled around for the faucet, and once his hands felt it, he twisted it to turn it on, sending a steady stream of water to fall down onto the sink. After he was done and made it perfectly sure that there was none of the bitterness left sticking around his tongue, Ian gruffly grabbed himself a glass from the cupboard, filled it with water from a chilled pitcher, and gulped it down, hoping to ease down the taste and the rapid, panicked fluttering of his heartbeat—but most importantly, to soothe down the unutterable intensity of his disgust.

He pounded his now-empty glass of water down onto the table, still breathing heavily. His eyes were closed, as if in a desperate effort in trying to focus himself. Thankfully, as if his body heard his mind's pleas, he felt himself calm down from his overreaction when the rapid pulses of his heart started to subside.

He pulled out a chair from the table and let himself collapse on it. He chose the chair farthest away from that disgusting cup of abomination called _coffee_ , deciding instead that he should just have another cup of water. At least it was halfway more decent than that…that… _that_ …

He couldn't even find the right word.

He knew that coffee wouldn't taste the slightest bit like civilization in comparison with the luxurious tea brands that he usually had, but he hadn't known that these disgusting beverages were even worse than he imagined. They tasted as if they were already decades beyond their expiration dates. He had to groan when he realized that they _were_ , after having checked the label of their packs. Stupid self. He didn't feel like he was himself today. He was supposed to be an _expert_ on these kinds of things, of poisoning people both body and mind, of being alert and aware of his surroundings _especially_ if it came to the more refined things in life. But he just…didn't feel like himself today.

As he was still reeling from the said horror, his eyes briefly fell onto the eyesore that sat a meter away from him. The fragile china teacup.

And he had to wince at the sight of it.

" _Tea for two, please!"_

* * *

A small, brunette head peeked out from the door, cautiously checking the hallways to see if those rowdy Cahillian lots had already gone. None. Oh, thank god. She darted her eyes from left and right to make sure. Mmm, empty, indeed. When seconds more of silence echoed her curious surveillance, she finally stepped out from the horrid cowshed her dear cousin Amelia had assigned to her as her 'room', disgustedly brushing off the dust from her lavish Solène LéClaire.

Ugh. Ruined.

She groaned aloud, throwing her head back in the air in utter revulsion, closing her eyes, wishing that the dirt on her dress was just something she imagined. But when she looked down at her dress again, the dirt _hadn't_ disappeared. Unbelievable. _Sickeningly_ unbelievable. She couldn't understand how everyone else in this bloody mansion can possibly withstand such poor sense of cleanliness. That 'room' Amy had given her looked like it hadn't been touched in centuries. Giving her a room that had every semblance to a byre? It's like that peasant girl has forgotten who her superiors were.

If they were back the days, the British girl would have certainly exploded in an outrageous fit. She would've summoned the guards and fire Amy as if she were a maid. She would've burned her right away. But instead of having thrown one of her tantrums, she had merely given her a small smile, politely accepting the room Amy had given her without another word.

_Because you're poor now, Natalie. Stripped from the spoils, flung away from the riches. You'll just be like everyone else from now on. You'll just be some poor, penniless, pitiful little peasa—_

Then, she gasped.

 _No. No. Was I, Natalie Kabra, really just about to say that_ I'M _a peasant?_

Ugh, no time for self-pity. She shook her head. Now, where was she again?

Ah, yes. The Cahill mansion. The empty, quiet, peaceful Cahill mansion. Those words were contradicting ideas, but for now Natalie was going to enjoy the little minutes remaining when she could have the mansion's quiet all to herself. Everybody else had gone to act like the cannibalistic savages they were in that horrid public restaurant called Mack and Donald's for dinner, with the famous yellow-and-red clown mascot. Natalie felt like she'd been polite enough to accept the room Amy had offered, so this time she had been a little blunter in declining the restaurant. Such a place was never Natalie's cup of tea.

Speaking of tea, that was actually the actual reason why she stepped out of her room. She headed straight for the kitchen and planned on doing the task herself—settling the kettle, climbing up the cupboards, pouring hot water. Don't even start thinking about how un-Kabra it was, because Natalie was fully aware that it was all utterly _inexcusable_ —especially the fact that she could not seem to locate where those lots placed their teabags in the first place.

And yes, she was referring to commercial-grade teabags.

She'd never really known how commercial-grade tea tasted, as she only delighted herself in her darling Gusteau's first-class Earl Grey—oh, and especially that expensive and refined brand from Fortnum and Mason, which was even said to be the Queen of England's personal favourite. But Gusteau was now merely a servant from the past, and the past cannot be brought back. Also, if she was going to survive in this place of horrors, she'd need tea, in whatever form it may be. Besides, those… _commercial-grade_ teabags are the closest things to civilization she'd ever known to exist in the whole of America, so she might as well tolerate it while she was here.

 _Ugh, where ARE those bloody teabags?_ she thought to herself, irritated, hands shoving past stocked bags of Doritos, cans of Pringles, and packs of Skittles. She was perched atop a stool, on her excessively high heels, as she searched the cupboard for any signs of the presence of a teabag. Ugh. No sign of them. No sign of anything at all! Just those stupid Doritos, Pringles, Skittles, or anything else of the sort that causes the teeth to rot like unpleasant-smelling eggs. No wonder why Dan's breath smelled the way it did.

She was just about to give up on searching for it. But then her hand came in contact with something tucked in the farthest corner of the shelf itself. When she pulled it out, she recognized it as…a box of tea! Yes! She almost screamed in joy. But then when she even attempted to move in the slightest of inches, her high-heeled stilettos suddenly slipped onto the edge of the stool. She suddenly felt herself moving downwards, her hair flying all around, and a scream escaped her lips as the box of tea from her hand was flung into the air. She felt gravity taking control, pulling her towards the ground, she felt helpless when her screams reached the ears of _nobody_ , and just when she thought she was about to hit the ground with the hardest crack she'd ever hear, she—

—fell onto someone else's arms.

Her eyes were shut tight from her fall, her hands clenched into quivering little fists. But when she cracked one eye open, she saw the face of an angel, his face bright against the light of the heavens.

"Natalie?" said the handsome voice of said angel, the worried features etched onto his face making it seem as if she could hear the chiming tintinnabulation of heavenly bells. But then, when the blurred image suddenly focused, she was shocked (and was overcome with disgust) when she realized that it was just her older brother, staring down at her with amber eyes that were so much identical to hers.

But of course, her eyes held a _much_ more fashionable shade of amber than _he_ did.

"Natalie, are you alright?" he said again, his heavenly voice coming into annoying— _very_ annoying—focus. "Can you hear me?"

"Yes, I am _not_ dead!" she said, clawing her hands onto his face to make him put her down. "Now let! Me! _Go!_ "

"Alright, alright, I heard you already!" He struggled to balance himself, what with the heavy weight of Natalie in his arms and her making it all harder with her clawing around. He tried to find a way on how to put her down the gentlest way he could, but with the very relentless and most certainly _wild_ barbarian in his arms who didn't appear to have grown up a Lucian in Britain as a _Kabra_ , no less, he was finding this job very difficult, indeed.

And the shrill shouting didn't make anything any better.

"Ugh, this is so disgusting! You're my _brother_ for heaven's sake! If anyone sees us—just—UGH!" Natalie was clearly disgusted beyond her nightmares. Ian had to roll his eyes at this.

"Well, my _sincerest_ apologies for trying to help—"

"I said _let me go!_ "

The screech was so shrill it nearly pierced through Ian's eardrum.

"Fine—as you wish!" He gave up on finding the meaning of the word 'subtlety', so he just decided to do this the easiest way and throw the term out the window. He harshly put her down onto the floor, making Natalie stagger as she regained control on her exaggeratedly high heels. Luckily, she found her grip onto a wooden chair, and she glared up at her brother for his unorthodox ways of putting her down. How she hated it that he was _taller_ than her in times like this, because she'd always end up looking _up_ at him, which was psychologically ineffective in taking control of a situation. Lucian 101.

"Ian!" she shrilled, the sound almost literally grating that the elder brother just _had_ to cringe. "How _dare_ —what on earth—why did _you_ —" But, when she couldn't find it in her the proper words to say, she just came out with it the bluntest way she knew.

"Oh, I just _hate_ you!"

Ian rolled his eyes. "You very well know that I hate you more."

"I hate you _most!_ " Natalie yelled.

"You're very welcome."

" _Get out of my sight!"_

Ian sighed. "Very mature, Natalie."

"Oh, tell that to Daniel. He'd benefit from that statement more than I will."

"What on Earth were you doing with those heels, anyway, standing on a stool? You could've fallen and gotten yourself hurt."

"I…well…well I just wanted to have some tea!" she said, even more timidly than Ian would have expected from his sister. So the elder let his crossed arms fall to his side tentatively, a playful smirk worming on the edge of his lips.

"Then why didn't you just tell me?" He patted down her head as if she were a dog. "You can't even reach the cupboard in the first place. Even with those ridiculous five-inch heels."

She flailed her arms wildly in the air to swat his hand away, fuming and disgusted of the gesture. Ian laughed, and Natalie turned her back to him, crossing her arms while trying her best to look the haughtiest she'd ever been. "I thought you went with them." The girl tried to distract herself by pretending to examine her fingernails. " _Them_ , those irritating, loud, volatile Cahills who even consider themselves as human beings."

"And leave you here alone?" Ian said. "I'd prefer spending the night with you than with those unsophisticated buffoons. You are the most annoying sister who ever crawled on the face of the Earth, yes, but you're the only one I have."

"I don't _crawl_ ," she fumed, disgusted even more. "I walk on sensible high-class stilettos that fit properly and that cost even more than all of those simians' lives combined, and I will _not_ apologize for taking pride on my possessions—because it's true!"

Ian rolled his eyes.

"And _you_ ," Natalie fired back, so hotly that she had to suppress the almost-irresistible itch in her palms to smack him, right here and now. "Why didn't you go with _them_ , anyway?"

"Me? In a grimy, grubby place called Mack and Donald's?" Ian scoffed. "Please. You know me better than that, Natalie."

"But…" Natalie hesitated. It was almost hard for her to swallow that lump in her throat, but she managed to speak after a few moments. "But Amy's there. Isn't she? Didn't she invite you to come?"

"I refused."

This shocked her. "Why?"

"I've already told you." Ian ran a hand through his black hair, refusing to meet her eyes. "Because I knew you'd be left here alone."

His sister let herself smile. Not a smirk, not a simper, not an evil, threatening sneer—but a real, breathing smile.

Because when else did she have the time to bond with her brother? And when else (if ever else) would Ian be in the mood enough to forget that annoying little crush he had on that peasant girl, Amy Cahill, to consider spending time with his sister? She wouldn't ever admit it, not in a million years, or not _ever_ for that matter, but…she somewhat felt a little left out when all Ian had in his mind was that redheaded flake. _She_ , Amy, oh, no, that girl wasn't even _worth_ her brother's time. She was too much of a peasant. She wondered what Ian even saw in _her_. It wasn't that she minded her brother having lovey-dovey thoughts that were most definitely worth her blackmails, but all they had was each other now. The least that both of them could do is be there for each other, and each other only, all the time. Natalie had a feeling that Ian was only doing this to make up for that incident when he attempted to go to America _just_ to meet that pathetic little whippet and leave his very own sister all alone in that bloody mansion, but, strangely, that issue didn't matter right now. It didn't. All that mattered now was him and her.

As siblings.

So, at the thought, she actually smiled.

Something that she hadn't felt herself do in ages.

But, suddenly, Ian cleared his throat to say that he meant business, immediately cutting off the sentimentality that had suddenly befallen upon the siblings. He walked off on the farther side of the room, familiarizing his eyes with the sights of the Cahill kitchen. "Now," he said, as he took off a kettle from its handle. "What were we going to do again?"

Natalie tiptoed to reach for two dainty-looking teacups on the lower shelf of the cupboard. Then she held them out to Ian. She didn't even complain about how the teacups were so visibly cheap and looked like as if they came from the cheapest garage sale—she was too much overcome with joy to complain, ignoring the thin, misty sheen that suddenly covered her eyes. She hadn't felt this happy in ages.

For once in what she felt like was a very long time, Ian Kabra, her brother, had actually chosen _her_ over Amy Cahill.

So, as much as she didn't want to admit to herself that she was practically getting tearful, she smiled her brightest, saving this memory so that she could play it over and over again whenever she was sad.

"Tea for two, please!"

* * *

 _No…no._ He briskly turned his head away from staring at the lone little teacup at the far end of the table, and instead pushed back his chair to stand up, all the while staring blankly right at the wall. No, he didn't remember anything. He shouldn't give in. But…

Oh, the _pain_ of having memories. Sometimes he wished he could just press one button to delete it all so that it would all go away. But life chose to make everything else more difficult than that. It was almost like he could hear her voice all the time, anywhere he went—it was almost annoying, though it was frighteningly comforting at the same time. If that even made any sense. Which it didn't.

Because nothing made sense anymore.

He released a sigh of exasperation for himself. He couldn't understand himself nowadays, it was almost like he was numbed by the stress of all the tragedy that kept on pressing down his shoulders with an unimaginable weight, disabling his mind to think properly and forcing it to muddle. He walked to the sink, intending to bring along his empty glass of water in his hand. He was just about to—

" _Ian…?"_

—and froze.

He turned around, yet saw nobody behind him. His eyes widened.

"What on earth…?"

"… _Ian…"_

The empty glass of water in his hand met the ground and it shattered into a million pieces at his feet.

No. It can't be.

"… _Ian!"_

But he didn't even acknowledge the mess he had made. His eyes were wide with shock, face stricken with a lash of disbelief. No. Just…no.

Not _again_.

" _Ian!"_

But he knew he heard it. He had to stop pretending, because he _knew_ he did. And what he knew, he believed, no matter how unbelievable it was. He couldn't pretend anymore that he wasn't seeing Natalie—no, he knew it, she was here, she was alive! Several days and nights he thought he heard her, he thought he _saw_ her, and, repeatedly, he told himself that he was just seeing things, hallucinating with these stupid nightmares that kept on haunting him—he was even convinced he'd gone delusional. But now, he can't find the heart to deny it. Not anymore. He was getting tired, exhausted, and it's _not_ because of her persistent and repeated appearances, but because of _pretending_. He couldn't just deny it over and over again if these… _delusions_ came back just the same. They must mean something…that she really _was_ alive, all this time along.

Maybe…maybe she actually survived that accident. Yes, maybe she did. The more he thought about it, the more it became plausible, to the point that even Ian Kabra was able to convince himself that his sister was actually alive. Maybe…maybe she got out of that blasted catastrophe all along, and he didn't know about it—or, maybe his cousins knew all about it, maybe they were just hiding his Natalie away from him, like this was some sort of a cruel prank arranged by Dan. Screw all logic, screw that bloody thing called _reality_ —she's alive. She's alive, and _nothing_ was going to stop him from believing otherwise, not even that rubbish thing they call 'logic'. He _knew_ it, and he knew was right.

He knew he was, he _knew_ he _was_ , and he _can't_ be wrong.

_Natalie was alive._

He strained his hearing. He wanted to hear that lovely voice again, even just for once more. He didn't even argue with himself, or _try_ to stop himself from imagining these kinds of things like he normally would, but now…he just couldn't control himself. For once, he _wanted_ to _feel_ delusional. He felt like it was the only way to be with her again, even if it was in means beyond reality. And, face it—escaping reality…really, that was the only way, so he just let this delusional feeling take over him and swallow him whole. He didn't mind it one tiny bit—it felt so good, it was nauseating. He was so familiar with that term. He was so familiar of what _that_ feeling was called. He had seen it overcome so many people, Amy, Dan, all his other cousins, even Jake—

That feeling was called desperateness.

" _Ian…?"_

His immediate response was to twirl around and his eyes to frantically dart from one direction to another, as if his body itself was practically yelling, _Where?_ _Where are you, Natalie? Where_ are _you?_ When a small, feminine, ethereal laugh so familiar to his ears was what he received as an answer, he spun around to the direction, and saw from beyond the window of the kitchen that, just behind a lone tree in the backyard, was Natalie clad in white, smiling at him—and she was alive.

There was no denying it.

He pushed past the door, leaving behind the sound of bells as he did, excitement rumbling throughout his body and burning anticipation fuelling every step that he took towards her. Dews from the cool green grass flew to the air as he ran with all his might, afraid to stop and take a breath for one second for fear that she might disappear again amidst white flower petals if he even dared.

He cannot be mistaken. It was clearly her. These feelings? These feelings couldn't be false, they were _real_ , and so was she. Everything else seemed to be muted and lost in an abstract painting of confusing, amalgamated colours in a painting as he ran towards her, and felt like he didn't want to acknowledge anything else—just him, just her, together in their own little world of nothingness. He heard himself shouting words as his voice resounded from his throat, he felt his cold cheeks touched by a warm stream of tears that flowed down to his chin, and he felt his feet doing their own job of running, running, running out of the world, as if believing that he could escape everything else if he ran fast enough, desperate to outpace reality and hope that it will never be able to catch up on him. His breath had hitched, his lips were smiling, his heartbeat was fast, and his bright, hopeful, disturbingly euphoric amber eyes…

…were reduced to frightening little pinpricks, a clear sign of being deranged.

* * *

It's out of the blue, but Jake envied the queen ant.

He was sitting onto a large, overgrown tree root that bulged out of the ground, his one arm propped onto his knee so that his head heavily pressed down against a hand. In his other hand, he held a twig, something wet that he had picked up from the ground earlier. He was using this piece of wet twig to, you know, poke around an ant colony's business.

"You guys are so lucky," Jake whispered lazily to the ants, which kept streaming in and out of the small crater at the top of the small anthill. They were oblivious of the giant meddler who poked around their anthill with his giant twig, the little insects focused and intent on bringing their food inside. The soil was still wet from the rains that had fallen a while ago, but Jake had to be amazed at how quick these ants were when it came to survival. The anthill was still small, considering that the neatly-assembled creatures were still starting to rebuild it, but other than their astounding diligence that betrayed their size, Jake was amazed at something else.

"How does your queen manage to do that, huh?" he asked again, his voice thickly coated by the syrup of melancholy. He continued on poking around with his small stick. "She can manage having everyone behind her back, and…and you don't betray her, and…and no matter what, you wouldn't cast her out in the dark. She doesn't have to worry about being grassed on and betrayed." He blew out air from his cheeks; and when the image of Ian and Amy, sleeping together in her room, just…just…ugh. Jealousy was burning in his body and it was consuming him whole. So he shooed the thought away. He was disgusted whenever he thought of it that way.

But at the same time, he was furious with Amy. For Amy to betray him like that when he gave her his full trust…

…he really envied the queen ant.

At least she, the Queen Ant, doesn't have to worry about having anyone in her large colony to betray her. Sigh. He was so amazed at how these little fellas expressed their true love and devotion to their queen. Sometimes…sometimes he wished that…well.

Sometimes he wished that Amy would be eternally loyal to him.

And don't even get him started with that rotten little _snake_. He wondered if it was coincidental that even his name sounded like one. But even if it didn't, he still really _was_ born that way—born a devious, lying, sickening snake. He was just so…so _sickening_. Fate sure had a cruel sense of humour to give that Kabra a name that fit his personality _so_ perfectly much.

How _dare_ he lay one finger on _his_ Amy? Jake was perfectly aware that that man wasn't born with any sort of living conscience embedded in his brain, but he figured that he still must have enough intelligence in him to understand the simple reality that Amy was _his_ —done, period, discussion _over_. But the Cobra still tried on getting her with those sly moves of his, as if he didn't understand that simple, simple, _simple_ little thing. Why couldn't he just slither away from her life, from his life, from _their_ lives? How dare he advance those moves on Amy? What _is_ the deal of that Cobra?

And Atticus. His own little _brother_. Jake wasn't really sure where his feelings stood with his brother—he just felt a mix of embarrassment, anger, and an unpleasant churning in his stomach whenever he thought of that conversation he had with him in the library. He was embarrassed because his younger brother acted as if _he_ was the reasonable, mature, and responsible older brother, scolding him like that and telling him to, quote-unquote, 'Listen to Ian's voice for once because he's the one who needs it for the moment' and a lot of other stupid philosophical teachings that he probably read from one of Plato's books. He was angry with him because he actually _sided_ Ian. And that unpleasant churning in his stomach…

" _When you were adopted, did I stop caring about you?"_

Jake kicked a pebble. In short, Atticus wouldn't even be saying these things to him if it wasn't for _that_ irritating rash in the first place.

 _Just how_ dare _he?_

He was gripping onto the stick in his hand so tightly that it split in two. The snapping sound brought Jake back to reality, and he realized just how much force he'd been applying onto the poor little twig. And when he felt a drip of coldness trickling down his nose, he looked up, and realized that it was starting to rain all over again. He sighed, stood up, letting the pieces of broken twig in his hand collide against the ground. He took his steps slowly as he trudged out from behind the tree, so lethargically as if his sneakers were made of lead. He almost hated to leave the ants alone. He felt as if he was going to leave them to their doom if he just let them be, because if the rain _does_ fall, their newly-built anthill would be washed away again and they'd have to build them all over once more. He _pitied_ them.

But then he snapped to his senses. And almost laughed at himself.

 _They're just ants, Rosenbloom,_ he thought to himself. _Get a grip_.

He was just about to walk back towards the house, still muttering to himself about how ridiculous he was. But, suddenly, his heightened senses of hearing perked up at the sound of bells. He looked up, and saw Ian emerge out of the backdoor, and, on instinct, Jake immediately hid back behind the tree, only letting a small portion of his head peeking out so he could spy on him.

Because out of all the things that Ian did so far, Jake deserved the right to become suspicious.

"I know you're out there, Natalie," Ian said, his legs wobbling as he forced them forward. Jake had to smirk at the pathetic sight. He _knew_ Ian was a drunkard.

"Show yourself!" he said again, as if he was trying to confront some evil villain like Darth Vader or something. Ian put up his hands to cup his mouth, and, a little more desperately than necessary, he called out, _"Natalie!"_

Wait…. The smirk onto Jake's face evaporated as he realized to whom that name actually belonged. Natalie…wasn't _Natalie_ Ian's dead sister?

And he was calling on…

…on _whom_ , again?

"Natalie!" he cried out, loud and clear, as if to answer Jake's rambling thoughts. Pupils diluted to pinpricks, he flailed his arms forward as if reaching for something, but only succeeding in seizing at empty air—and cause him to stumble forward, as if he'd just tripped over a rock. But he wouldn't be knocked over by the slight disturbance, because in no time, he was up again on his feet.

"Natalie, please…where _are_ you?" His voice was broken, but it was laden with such a desperate hope that it even managed to tug at Jake's heart even if for just a little. _"Natalie!"_

It made Jake's mouth open just a bit slightly. He couldn't decide how he should feel about this. and guilt for having been so judgmental to such a broken person so harshly. Because that…

" _Natalie, please!"_

That was the first time he'd heard Ian Kabra speak a name with such…such…

… _desperateness._

"But I _thought_ you wanted to have tea!" Ian's voice started cracking, and Jake thought he heard the sound of a choke, like the onslaught of a sob. " _Natalie!_ "

But what? Who? _Where?_ No matter how hard Jake looked, there was no Natalie—only the occasional trees in the clearing, _nothing_ _more_.

Either Jake'sseeing things, or this Cobra's the one who's seeing things.

And for a second, Jake hesitated. But he fought against his own, selfish ends and ran out of his hiding spot, screaming out of his lungs the one word that he loathed the most.

" _Kabra!"_ he howled. "Kabra, over _here!_ "

For a split second, a flash of recognition crossed through Ian's eyes at the sound of his own name. He even slightly turned around to get a look at the running Rosenbloom who was quickly speeding toward him, and, Jake couldn't understand why, but he felt a smidgeon of relief wash over him when he saw a flash of the real Ian Kabra glitch in whoever this person was.

"N…no." It was so uncharacteristic that it was beginning to frighten him, but Ian's voice actually _trembled_. The Kabra heir took a step back, his deranged amber eyes looking at Jake, terrified. "Are you…are you one of them? Are you going to take me too?"

Jake's eyes were beginning to widen. He took in the sight of Ian. His hair was ruffled, his clothes were crumpled, his face was streaked red with fever, and now, he talked with such a terrified voice as if he thought that Jake was about to abduct him or something. What in the world…

…has _happened_ to Ian Kabra?

Jake gritted his teeth and clenched his hands. He briefly closed his eyes and blew out a breath. He opened his eyes again and eventually caught up with Ian, grabbing him by the shoulders so he could turn him to him and make him look straight into his eyes.

"Listen to me, buddy. Natalie is _dead_. Alright? Now snap out of it!"

"Shut up! _I refuse to believe your lies!_ Don't touch me! Let me _GO!_ " he shouted, trying to get out of the Rosenbloom's tight hold. "I still need to get to her!" He reached his hand out as if to grab something in the air. "She's going to get herself killed! Do you even understand me at all? I _have_ to save her! _Natalie!_ "

Jake struggled to block his thrashing around.

"Hey, hey, Natalie isn't around anymore, okay?" Jake said, violently shaking him on the shoulders to bring him to reality. Ian only reacted with a series of "No, no, she's _still_ here! I _saw_ her! Let go of me, you vagrant! _Natalie!_ "

Jake had never been so thankful of his times back in the gym—it required a heavy man to stop this wild Kabra's thrashes. Ian's eyes were glistening with tears as he fought his way out of Jake's grasp, and the latter heard in the former's voice a firm conviction that he _saw_ her, he actually _saw_ Natalie, and the Rosenbloom couldn't believe how positive and certain Ian was of this plain lie. He never thought he'd ever see him this way, so…so _broken_. He'd never be able to admit it aloud, but, all this time, at that very moment, Jake began to see how Ian managed to keep all of… _these_ to himself for a long time. It required a heavy amount of control, patience, and ability to deaden oneself to keep on trying to pretend that everything was alright and move through the days as usual as if nothing ever even happened.

And now…

" _Natalie!"_

" _NO!_ Kabra, you _aren't_ going to bring her back!" Jake tried to stop his squirming, or counteract them at the very least, and he was slightly starting to get riled up at how persistent he was at trying to reach for something in the air but only end up at nothing. The tears that escaped his eyes, the helpless wails, the desperate floundering around—it all forced Jake to gulp that heavy lump in his throat but _think_. Think about how much Ian had really gone through and how he'd been treating him shallowly despite all that. He thought about how he _understood_. Because if he'd lose Atticus, he'd probably…probably…

Jake looked at Ian, his tearful eyes, that desperate hope that shone in his shattered ambers, that little shred of light that kept on clinging onto the lie that his sister was still alive. Everything, everything about this cursed situation Jake had suddenly stuck himself into— _everything_ twisted Jake's stomach so hard it _hurt_.

Jake had to look away. He _had_ to. If he'd lost Atticus at the fight with the Vespers, then….

He'd probably lose himself.

So, in his next words, he couldn't help his voice from cracking in the way he said it.

"You _can't_ bring her back, Ian!" It was the first time Jake had probably called his name sincerely, without a trace of sarcasm or condescension—only the tremble of truth.

"She's _gone!"_

But Ian still refused to believe it. He refused to believe anything else. Because he saw her. He _knew_ he did.

" _Natalie!"_

* * *

Seconds of horror passed, until Atticus shook his head and tore his eyes away from the dreaded mirror on the ground. No point in dillydallying.

He came up to Ned and snatched the paper from said Starling's hand, immediately scanning his eyes with disquieting urgency over the freshly-printed words. Everyone else stared at the young prodigy with both curiosity and alarm, and while Ned really wasn't very aware of what was happening around in here, he couldn't help but share in Dan and Phoenix's expressively worried stares. Atticus, however, was oblivious of all of them, and as he read on, his eyes gradually widened, and widened, and widened, and when he knew enough, he dashed past all of them and proceeded down the stairs—all the while thinking, over and over again, _How could I have missed_ that _? Stupid, stupid, stupid! The article_ already _said it, for crying out loud!_

But then he forgot to do something else. He so wished to bang his head against the wall, but he didn't have any time for that, so maybe later. He dashed back up the stairs to meet the confused threesome back where he left them, and asked, pointedly to Dan—

"Where's your home telephone again?" Atticus just hated the fact that he didn't have his own phone in times of emergency like this. And as far as he knew, both Dan and Phoenix didn't have theirs, too. Phoenix was too young, and, well, Dan, too irresponsible. And as for Ned, Atticus didn't like the guts of _that_ one. Sure, he just met him, but he already felt like he wouldn't want to borrow things from a scientific cretin who underestimated the power of history—so there was no way in forever that he was going to touch something of _his_.

"Telephone? What for?" Dan asked. "You finally figured you need to call the psychiatrist?"

Atticus smacked his palm across his forehead.

"Uh, you need to call someone?" Ned stepped forward as he fished his phone out of his pocket, and helpfully held it out to Atticus. "In case you've forgotten, all Ekaterinas are technologically advanced and it would be virtually impossible if a single one of them didn't own even just a primitive phone." Ned raised his in the air.

Atticus smiled, and took the phone. Ned smiled back.

A peace offering, eh?

* * *

Amy and Nellie suddenly bolted upright on their chairs as the faint sound suddenly reached their ears.

"Wait." Amy had her palms onto the table, sweating nervously as she slowly processed on whose voice that belonged to. "Did you…"

"I heard it alright," Nellie responded, and the two girls froze once again as the voice of someone familiar shouted once again.

It suddenly dawned onto Amy on who the owner of the voice was, and her eyes widened. She immediately threw herself up and out of the chair, ignoring Nellie's alarmed voice as she pushed past the doors of the dining hall and into the kitchen, where she flung herself to the window to look at the scene that beheld from outside, and gasped.

Jake and Ian were… _wrestling_ each other?

No, no, that was wrong—as Amy peered on more closely, she realized that it was _Jake_ who was wrestling on Ian!

Infuriated, Amy bolted out of the backdoor and stomped towards the two of them, screaming for them to stop. The two boys didn't even seem to acknowledge the stomping ball of rage, which only made Amy more riled up. Immediately, she put herself between the two and broke them harshly apart with all the force she got, causing Jake to stagger backwards and Ian to fall on the ground on all fours, his breathing laboured as he coughed quite violently, his cheeks flushed with relapsing fever, his cheeks wet with tears, possibly from the ordeal of coughing.

The mere sight of Ian struggling against his coughing was enough to send Amy blaring at the two of them—but mostly at Jake. "Both of you!" she cried out. "Just stop it!"

But Jake didn't even seem to acknowledge the wrathful look in Amy's eyes. Instead, he looked more than happy to see her, more than he ever did, as he took some steps toward her.

"Amy, am I glad to see you!" he said, opening his arms wide as if to embrace her. Then, almost just as immediately, his expression turned into a gravely serious mood. "Look, about Ian, I think he's—"

"—had _enough_." She spun around to glare at him, the sharpest she'd ever done. "I know you're angry at him with a-all that happened in the last five hours," she tried to suppress that stubborn blush that spread all over her cheeks, "but there is _no need for violence!"_

Perhaps she had said the last part of her sentence a little too loudly that even Jake had the trepidation to wilt like a dead plant.

"But—but Amy, I…I wasn't! I really wasn't! Listen—"

"And why would I?" The Madrigal steeled herself as she whirled around her heel to turn her back onto him, and she knelt beside Ian. "All _you_ ever did was think about yourself."

For a second, Amy heard no response coming from the Rosenbloom standing behind her. She was worried for the briefest of moments that he was going to burst into rage, shout at her and vent his anger onto the Kabra that was breathing heavily beside her, so she protectively put her hand onto his to assure him she was there, and with the other she brushed away that tear that lined his pained face. But instead of anything violent, like she expected from the Rosenbloom…

"Fine." Jake's voice was quiet, unpretentious, removed of all the haughtiness that Amy had more than expected to come out of him. "I guess I'll just have to go now." And off he went, the sound of his footsteps trudging against the soil of the earth the only indication that he actually meant what he said.

As the steps quieted down, Amy was left alone to herself, wondering what _that_ implied, a little surprised of his silent reaction. She knew Jake as someone who never backed down from an argument, and one who would rather pick a fight than lose in a dispute. It was one of his childish qualities that Amy thought of as rather bothersome—because look at how it so meritoriously affected her and Ian the other night on the dinner table. She thought it a little unusual that Jake admitted his defeat so easily this time.

But as Amy casually rested her hand onto Ian's forehead, thoughts still gone on thinking about Jake, she was suddenly yanked out back into reality by the hot temperature that flared onto her hand. She looked down at Ian's head on her lap and felt for his forehead, and realized that, as the rain slowly started to fall, he was burning with fever. Again.

She told him to rest but he didn't listen, and look at what it got him into!

"…Amy?" he said, so weakly that Amy barely heard him. "What…where…"

"Ian! Ian, are you alright? Are you okay? Don't worry, I'll—I'll protect you from him, I just needed to—"

"No. Stop. I am…not worth protecting."

Amy looked at Ian, surprised that words that held such heavy meaning would come out of his lips at such a dire time. Then Ian's grip onto Amy's hand tightened, so hard that Amy thought she was going to get burned by his feverish hold. But her thoughts were all rammed short when she witnessed, right then and there, Ian's face loosening into that of numbness.

Emptiness.

So much so that it _frightened_ her.

"Not…not me. I am…not _worth it_." Tears began falling from his eyes one by one, but he didn't at all seem to acknowledge any of them. He simply looked into her eyes, his shattered ones starting to lose that very last shred of hope before he shut down from this world completely. Because why should he continue to live, if he'd lost his life's meaning already?

"Not me. But rather… _rather_ …"

He didn't finish the sentence. He closed his eyes as his head fell onto Amy's lap for much needed rest.

Amy, however, with all that was happening around her, was nowhere near feeling pleasant.

"Ian? _Ian?!_ Ian, _no!_ Hang on, I'll call the ambulance—"

Amy was on the verge of fishing her own phone out of her pocket to call the ambulance on her speed dials, but just as she was about to call, she heard the sound of her ringtone. It rang and rang and rang as Amy checked the caller ID, saying that it came from Gaston Langton, the name of the guard they had outside the gates of the mansion. When she hit accept, she was met by the gruff voice of the said guard with a rather alarming urgency.

"Miss Cahill?"

"Yes? What is it? I'm sort of in the middle of an emergency now, so—"

"An emergency, ma'am? Then that means you sent for the ambulance?" When he was only met by the silence from the other line, he continued on, trying to explain. "The medics here insist that you've called the ambulance, Miss Cahill. An emergency for your houseguest, Mr Ian Kabra?"

"B-b-but…" Amy drew back, puzzled. Much as she wanted to immediately let the medics in, she still had to be cautious of who goes in and out of the Cahill grounds. "But I didn't call…"

" _I did!"_

Amy twisted her head to see Atticus Rosenbloom running towards her, flailing his hands in the air.

" _I_ was the one who called for the ambulance!" he was shouting. "Let them in, quick!"

She returned to her phone, all doubts and suspicion vanquished.

"Okay. Let them in."

* * *

After the assigned medics had all brought Ian safely and quietly into the ambulance with trained calm and precise quickness, Amy started to climb in as well, intending to be there for Ian wherever they might take him. But just as Amy was about to step into the vehicle while the medics bustled around doing protocol, she was suddenly interrupted by a series of _"Hey, hey, hey, hold your horses!"_

The medics had to stop whatever they were doing and freeze at the sound of Nellie's voice—even the driver had to look at the rear-view mirror to look at the rather unnecessary interruption. This was not part of their protocol, and Amy was aware of what a distraction Nellie was becoming here. She flushed with embarrassment for her former au pair, whose hand was grasping tightly onto her arm, preventing Amy from taking one step closer to the vehicle's interior.

"Ma'am?" The leader of the medics seemed to be having a hard time trying to conceal her impatience as she locked eyes with Amy, who was stuck in the middle of boarding the ambulance or leaving it. "Are you coming or…?"

The redheaded attempted to shake off Nellie's hand onto her arm, saying, "Yes, yes, I'm coming and I—"

Nellie's grip onto Amy's arm tightened. "No, you aren't."

An exasperated sigh escaped the female medic. _"Madams…"_

"Okay, okay, you can go now," Nellie briskly told the impatient medic leader, leaning to the side to glance at the said lass beyond Amy's shoulder. "I'd just have a talk with my kiddo here, she's going to catch up with you guys in the hospital later. Alright?"

Amy still refused to get off the vehicle. Though the fact was unspoken, Ian _needed_ her here.

Because if he woke up, seeing that no one else was beside him in a time he needed _someone_ the most…

Amy remembered how his empty, almost lifeless words had been spoken through a tired, rasping voice.

And those _tears_ …

' _I am…not worth protecting. Not me. But rather…_ rather _…'_

That was why Amy was determined to be with Ian. She had to prove him that he _was_ worth protecting, and she _will_.

"Nellie, please…"

" _Amy."_

The sixteen-year-old sighed, defeated, knowing fully well that she couldn't argue with Nellie if the au pair used _that_ particular tone of voice. She got off of the vehicle, albeit grudgingly, and saw to it that the ambulance was quick to flee from the manor. Once they were out of sight, Amy complainingly turned to Nellie.

"Nellie—"

But the older girl was quick to interrupt, almost as if she was suddenly possessed by the spirit of a reprimanding mother. "Don't you raise your voice over me, young lady, _you're_ the one who needs to do some explaining here." Then Nellie slowly began to process her actual words, realizing at how much she sounded like a parent at that. "Wow," she said, lost in amazement for her parenting skills. "I'm crazy good at this."

Amy looked up to the heavens as if to beg for more patience. "Nellie…"

"Okay, okay, _alright_ , I see everyone's impatient with me today. Come on, let's go inside the house. It's starting to rain."

Amy diffidently followed suit. "Like I didn't notice _that_ …"

"Um…uh…" Atticus uncertainly pointed to himself as he watched the two ladies walk past him. "Am I…am I supposed to—"

"Yep, _you're_ coming too, little fella."

Amy gave Atticus a sympathetic smile as the younger Rosenbloom started to half-heartedly trail from behind them, leaving the gloomy weather outside to itself as it started to pour.


	9. The Eighth Victim?

Once Amy and Atticus had quietly taken their seats, Nellie pounded her fist onto the dining table in a domineering fashion.

"Now, which of you two could just start on telling me _what_ exactly is going on in here?"

Amy looked down at her hooked fingers, not wanting to meet anyone's eyes or else they might see that misty sheen that had started to envelope hers. How was she supposed to say it, _'Ian's going to die in a day, guys. Now what's for dinner?'_ To begin with, how was she going to say something that she feared the _most_?

Being a Cahill, it might be an unusual thing to say that she feared…death. Well, she _had_ been so used on being stared at by the eyes of the Grim Reaper himself, that one would think she'd already grown immune to it, but…no. _No_. How can a person expect her to come out of a devil's pit where she'd witnessed people _die_ , without being scathed by trauma? She didn't want death anymore, just please, not anymore. She was tired of it all. Stretching her young sixteen-year-old mind to the adultness of dealing with the trauma of such a great amount of death was pushing it too far.

Ian…was a person that had hurt her, maimed her, attempted to kill her several times, but despite so, Amy cared for him deeply as a friend. She might have been a bit bitter in treating him from the start, but in all the Cahill reunions and the numerous times Fiske had invited the Kabras over to stay with them, Amy had gotten to know him better—she'd gotten to understand him. She'd learned that his arrogant misgivings and haughty attitude were not the actual weapons of coldness and malice she'd once thought they were, but they were actually shields to keep the shattered pieces from being scattered all over the floor. She'd learned that he was deeper than the mud puddle that she thought he was. She'd learned that he was not actually the robotic snake his mother had trained him to be. She'd learned that he was actually _human_.

She could still remember that one summer evening of another Cahill reunion so vividly, when everyone wanted to have dinner at the McDonald's. That was one pretty rowdy night, considering that there were _Cahill_ teens involved, but the Kabras, well, were nowhere to be found. Amy took the initiative to find them, but when she'd found Natalie—

"I refuse to let such disgusting low-class American food from a disgusting low-class American restaurant even pass through my cultured lips," the girl had huffed with an outright genuine revulsion that was almost offending. "Good day."

And then she'd slammed the door on her face. Although Amy felt like wanting to _drag_ the haughty British girl out of the room, Amy decided it best not to pry. Lest of course, she wanted a poisoned dart sticking out her neck.

In turn, when she'd found Ian that night, he had also disagreed to come. Being slightly the lesser of the two evils, in a much gentler way compared to Natalie, he'd said…

"Forgive me if I'm being impolite, Amy, I really do." Amy dared not to think it, but did she just see a _genuinely_ apologetic smile twitch his lips upward, even just the _tiniest_ little bit? "But if Natalie isn't coming, then I won't as well."

Amy must have let her disappointment show, because Ian when continued, that apologetic smile was suddenly gone and then replaced with an annoying smirk.

"What, love, you actually _think_ that I'd ever choose being _with_ the lot of you?" No, there was no sting in his voice, but the sarcasm was there; and Amy thought that that was quite offending. Ah, scratch that, that was definitely offending. She clenched her hands by her side irritatedly as Ian continued to speak.

"No, thank you," he went on. "Eating dinner with you barbarians will be like camping around a bonfire, and while that's all very lovely," his smirk widened at this part, "being with my sister is like dining on a golden table. Even a five-year-old would know the better option between the two. I hope my degrading analogy doesn't offend you."

Amy knew, that for the most part, Ian had said that entire discourse to insult her and probably the rest of his cousins. But underneath, she knew, there was another meaning behind it all together.

He held his sister more valuable than anyone else.

It made her unclench the fists she had by her side, and it made her offended eyes soften to what was almost…sweet.

Outside he was despicable, and she'd shallowly judged him relentlessly because of that before. The _way_ he said things was despicable, but the truth was, there was something really more to Ian Kabra than just his snobbishness and overall prim and proper hauteur. And once Amy started to see that, once all assumptions have been pushed aside, he actually _grew_ in her eyes. He grew to become a genuine friend.

He…he wasn't just a cousin. He was family. He was a _friend_. Sure, they'd had quite the bitter past, but for Amy, all that had happened in the past _stays_ in the past. Somehow, she saw him as her brother—a lot similar to Dan, someone she held dear. Yes, well, his and his sister's various attempts at murder back in the Clue were most certainly despicable to Amy, but in some weirdly sentimental way, whenever she saw Ian and Natalie together, she thought, that the two of them…were innocent. Of _everything_. Despite the seemingly innate sardonicism in their twin amber eyes, they were just children whose limbs were tied to the will of their maniacal mother. Once those strings had been removed, though, all she'd ever seen in Ian and Natalie's otherwise imperial relationship as brother and sister…

…was simply a mirror image of her and Dan.

But seeing that mirror shattered, irreparable, _broken_ , the other half torn away so cruelly by a zap of lightning…she couldn't. She _couldn't_. She couldn't _stand_ the sight of it. She couldn't stand facing the mirror if _her_ brother was the one who had to be so cruelly ripped from the picture of her life. She saw how vulnerable and incomplete Ian was without _her_ , his sister, the only person left valuable to him. Most certainly, the Kabra siblings wouldn't ever have made it through their parental ordeals hadn't it been for the presence of the other. The two were tied to each other in a metaphorical string ever since birth. They can never make through life if the other one wasn't there.

Amy…wouldn't be able to live if she had lost her brother, too. Her heart simply broke at the prospect of Ian having to go through something as wretched as this.

So she had to help him—she had to be at his side to assure him that everything will be alright. Because he was her brother now, then she was his sister. And a sister has to be with her brother all the time, and never to leave his side.

_Ever._

She looked up at the au pair who was staring at her, demanding to be given some answers. But Nellie would never be able to understand why Amy cared about Ian so much. Perhaps they've all accepted each other already, but no one would ever be able to see the exact same thing that she saw in Ian, because their eyes were too blindfolded by past. Jake, Nellie, Dan—perhaps all her Cahill cousins, they held this poison against the Kabras that made them the black sheep of the family. That can be dealt with later, but for the time being, she needed to get out of this house and be with Ian's side. For him, and for the sake of her sanity as well. The only way that her mind could be put to rest was if she held Ian's hand in hers. Right _now._

Although no one would say it, although he'd never be able to admit it aloud, he _needed_ her. He needed _someone_.

She inhaled a sharp breath, and slowly let the words out.

"Ian…" She didn't want it to be true. But in all likelihood, it was. "He has the Mystery Syndrome."

Nellie's eyes widened, a flash of recognition flashing through her eyes. It was an indication to Amy that Nellie knew about the syndrome alright.

Amy looked back down at her hooked fingers again, trying to distract herself by playing with them. She let herself get lost in her own thoughts as the heavy silence that fell upon them weaved through a forgotten fragment of time.

If _she_ were the one who lost Dan, she wouldn't be able to live with herself. But still, she'd be lucky—she'd have Nellie, she'd have Fiske, those people around her who loved her would be willing to share her grief, thus dividing the weight. She didn't want to think about it, but doing so made her see just how fortunate she was, with all the people that surrounded her. But Ian…with his whole family gone, with him being the only remnant of the Kabra family, he had no one to share his grief with.

He felt as if he's on his own.

And if moving on was a difficult task for anyone else, what more with Ian, when no one else was willing to care enough to show him the sun again? And, if it would be looked at frankly, if Amy _didn't_ care, no one else ever would. Sure, the bitterness that the rest of the Cahills shared against the Lucian was long forgotten, but they never had enough reason to actually, sincerely care. The people around would be acting all sympathetic and say they're sorry, yes, but he needed to know that someone _genuinely_ wanted to carry this boulder alongside him, or else he's going to get himself crushed by the weight he's trying to carry all by himself.

And Amy wasn't going to let Ian get crushed by the weight of his own miseries.

Not if she could help it.

_Because one person who cared would be enough._

" _What…?_ But how?" Nellie finally managed to squeak out, the silence no longer bearable for her. "The Mystery Syndrome? You mean...you mean that deadly…"

Amy found herself twitching at the keyword, and she stood up from her chair so defiantly that even Nellie was sent a shocked step backwards to silence. Atticus kept his mouth shut.

"It's not _deadly!_ " she shouted. Queerly enough, when Ian was currently too disoriented to even start thinking about his dilemmas, it was _Amy_ who automatically took the responsibility of carrying on it for him. Already, she could feel the weight of this ordeal pressing down on her, forcing unexplainable tears springing at the edges of her eyes. No. _No_. No more deaths. _Please, just no more_. She was tired of grieving, she was tired seeing people die, and if Ian went, she wouldn't be able to forgive herself—she would feel like she'd lost a brother.

"Listen to me, Nellie,"—now there was a crack in her voice, unmistakably a warning for incoming sobs— "Ian is _not_ going to die!"

 _For once_ , she asked, desperately, to whatever gods were listening from the heavens above, _just for_ once _, can't you just make some sort of problem for me when the life of someone I cared isn't practically on the line?_

Nellie looked immediately broken at how Amy's voice sounded, at how her fists violently shook, as if smashing them against the wall was the only way to vent her emotions off. So the au pair let her guard down, tentatively letting her crossed arms fall to the side, her voice now adopting a more careful, motherly tone.

"H…hey…kiddo…" She awkwardly tried to reach out a hand, not knowing what else to say. She'd thought of herself more as the cool mom, but being the sentimental mother from time to time didn't sound too bad. "I'm sorry, I-I didn't know it was _this_ serious, I…" She let her voice trail off as Amy crashed back down to her seat, almost guiltily.

"No, no, _I'm_ s-s-sorry, Nellie, it's not your fault." She sniffled, scruffily wiping away some moistness in her eyes with the heel of her hand. "I…I just let myself get carried away, I guess. I'm sorry."

"That's right—calm down." Nellie showed the littlest hint of a smile as she withdrew her hand back from Amy's shoulder, glad that that was over. "You're not even sure he has the syndrome, right? The doctors are still yet to see. Maybe it's just really high fever or something, and you're working yourself out too much."

"Well…well, I don't really know…" She struggled to choose her words carefully. "But he's showing all the symptoms lately, and you know I can't take it anymore if someone else…if someone else from our family…" She took in a sharp inhale of breath. "I know that everything about the Mystery Syndrome is still guesswork and I shouldn't even be too worried about…death…but… If the other six people who caught it died because of it, then…then Ian will…he…" Amy took a shuddering breath to calm herself, which she didn't really succeed doing.

So she just settled with a mild, "I'm just…worried. But I can't be entirely sure whether Ian has it or not. But…truth to be told…" Amy buried her face in her hands miserably. "I can't even be sure of anything now."

"Look at that statement in the positive side, Ames." Nellie didn't hide her smile this time. One look at her au pair, Amy herself felt a small smile stretching her lips, even just a little bit. "See?" said Nellie, glad she cheered her kiddo up, even just a little bit. "Just think of it as: you're not even sure if Ian has the syndrome."

"But _I_ am."

Both girls whirled their heads around to look at the Rosenbloom who finally had the courage to speak.

* * *

_Ian slapped his father's hand away. He didn't want this disgusting man patting him on the head like he was a dog. It sickened him. Vikram, however, looked offended at the harsh gesture, the unflinching rage burning in his son's eyes. But Vikram surprised himself by thinking that this was actually what he deserved. They stayed still for a moment, until Ian told him, the first words he had ever told his father since the past several years—_

" _Don't call me your son." Each word was a painful stab to the heart. "You are not my father."_

The scene repeated and repeated and repeated itself inside his head like an annoying, broken little cassette. He didn't know why he even _bothered_ with that nightmare in the first place, but his mind just refused to give him even just a little peace.

" _Don't call me your son,"_ Ian had said. Vikram would never be able to admit it or give himself to submission, but his son's voice cut through his heart with lethal precision, the very words seething all that pain and anger that seemed to thunder out of his voice. So much was the hurt and anger that reflected at the tone of his voice that he was fairly surprised at how his son managed to lash out more of this same, burning hatred in his next words, justified anger fuelling each and every painful little letter—

" _You are_ not _my father."_

And those were the words that continued to echo inside his skull as if that nightmare had been _real_.

" _You are not my father."_

Vikram tried to distract himself from those stupid words. He was a little disappointed at himself for acting like he had been stabbed by the sharp words a million times, over and over again, and yet he was still alive to feel the pain. Under normal circumstances, he would have brushed those words away, swatting them as if they were just useless, mindless little flies. But this time, this time, it was different.

Because they had come from his own son.

The son he'd disowned, abandoned, hurt in all the ways that a father should not.

" _You are not my father."_

As those little words echoed throughout his skull like an annoying large gong, he caught himself flinch. _Again_. He scolded himself. He used to be so impervious to words—words were the finest weapons used in the art of trickery and deceit after all, and lying had always been any Lucian's expertise—but now, he felt…he felt _vulnerable_ , naked because of those words that kept on haunting him and wouldn't leave him alone. And when Ian had slapped his hand away when he tried to reach for him…

He released a heavy sigh. That was just a dream, a stupid nightmare, for Luke's sake. He shouldn't even be bothering about this. He wondered if he was starting to lose his touch.

The skies were dark and menacing, a bland shower of rain peppering down the grey London streets. He impassively looked out the window of the luxurious car he was in, an expression of plain emotionlessness written all over his face. The driver in front of him kept looking back at him to make sure if his passenger was still even alive, but the dignified Kabra refused to acknowledge him, lost in his own thoughts. He hadn't said a single word since he got in the car, and he never tore his gaze from the rainy weather outside, the feeling of nostalgia being sent scampering away with each little raindrop that collided like bullets against the earth. Gideon, he missed London. He'd been away from this nice little town for quite some time now—it felt absolutely strange that he was actually here, right now, of all the times in the world.

And, frankly, the only reason that Vikram Kabra even bothered to go out was because of that stupid little nightmare.

Because it had felt _real_.

He looked down at the polished, golden mirror in his hand, the topaz gem in the middle glowing with the distinct colours of yellowish-brown, a golden amber. That topaz gem, being the lone decoration of the simple yet elegant ancient relic, was the sole reason why he even surrendered to buying this in the first place: because the colour of the gem matched his wife's eyes. His daughter's. His son's. His _family_.

He shook the word off. No, he was _not_ getting sentimental. He was just… _remembering_ …yes, he was _just_ remembering, and most definitely _not_ sentimental.

This simple mirror…this, he hoped, would be a good enough gift of amendment that he could give to his son once he returned. He wanted to see Ian…and if he came, what he wanted was that he came with a gift, and he thought that this mirror was the best. Even Vikram found it hard to stop laughing at himself. But to be painfully honest, he didn't know what _else_ to give to Ian—the finest pair of leather shoes handcrafted from Switzerland? Clothing made with the expensive fabrics of northwest Scotland? He already had them all. This mirror that he had bought from an auction as a gift to his son was a little bit uninspiring, but shopping for gifts hadn't exactly been Vikram's area of knowledge. That was the feminine half of the Kabra family's natural talent, having been…well…Isabel and Natalie's former hobby.

He looked pained at even having to think of those two names.

He sighed at himself, feeling pathetic, as he threw the mirror into the interior of his luggage, and then zipping it off. A mirror… _bah_. So what if it was just an old-fashioned fancy little mirror? Ah, forget it. Vikram decided that he should throw the sentimentality out of the window—being so annoyingly sentimental was making him so tired he might just start singing a ritual to call for Luke's spirit to rejuvenate his soul. What was important was that he _actually_ made at least the most minimum of efforts to buy something for his son, right? What mattered was the thought, right?

This question brought the vile taste of culpability on his tongue, a little guilty because of being…well, having been Ian's father and not even knowing his son's likes and dislikes. He gripped his hands tightly onto his knees. He didn't really know what kind of things fascinated Ian now that he was already in his teens—the fact that he didn't even get to see him grow up, having been so busy attending to family affairs and such, had pained him already. It hurt so much more when he thought of the ripped relationship he had with his only son.

His little boy.

Ah, but perhaps little Ian was not so little now. The only thing Vikram probably knew of Ian now that he was grown up was his inevitable love of dart guns and maybe the finest silver pistol. However, Vikram was already certain that Ian already had a million of those tucked in his sleeves, so, really, they were not even an option to give to him as a gift.

The thought made Vikram chuckle. His little Ian, all grown up…old enough to hold dart guns and pistols.

Like father, like son, indeed.

"Master Vikram." The driver in front of him looked at the rear-view mirror to stare at his passenger. "We're already here."

Vikram leaned over his seat to peer at the mansion outside, that one place he had once called home. The Kabra mansion was draped over by a cool blanket of the night, continuously pelted by the steady downfall of rain. There was not a single light open from inside.

The old Lucian sighed. Of course Ian wouldn't live here anymore—Vikram knew him enough to know that _he_ wouldn't, because it was just hard to live at someplace where everything you looked at just caused painful memories to arise. For all Vikram knew, Ian might have already sold this to some other peasant who didn't deserve something as grand _his_ family's home, but he presumed he couldn't blame him for doing so. He would have definitely done precisely the similar thing.

_But if Ian's not here, then…then where would he be?_

Well, of course Vikram of all people already knew the answer to that question, but…he figured that it would be less painful pretending that he didn't.

There was a heated debate going on inside of his mind as he gestured his driver to bring him to the finest hotel. He was so _tempted_ to call his charter jet _right now_ and set flight plans to America, where he was certain that Ian would be living with his cousins in that lowly little town of Boston. He was so tempted to do it, even going so far as to slowly fish his phone out of the pocket, tap the dials away, until, finally, he was only one button away from finally making amends to his only son, from finally making everything right, from finally being able to put himself to rest.

His thumb was just half a feather's thinness away from tapping onto the 'call' button. He almost did it. He almost did. But just as he _really_ was about to—

" _You are not my father."_

He stopped himself, frustrated. Vikram put the phone back where it was supposed to be, heatedly huffing to himself.

Mm-hmm. So much for not being sentimental.

* * *

Atticus almost hated to explain it all over again—being on-the-know was most definitely a _tiring_ job, because the explaining part was always left with him. He started from the beginning—

He told them about the Norse mythology books that he'd been reading all about, and he told them all about the legend that circled around the Seven Sisters with their infamous mirrors, cursed by the power of their hatred against their mother's executioner, the king.

He was quick in explaining to them that, according to the story, the symptoms King Marcosias showed before he died of an unknown disease is very, _very_ , almost scarily, similar to the condition now coined the 'Mystery Syndrome' by the doctors in London. Paranoia, hallucinations, nightmares and delusions—all the exact symptoms matched from then to now, and he had known this to be an accurate confirmation thanks to Ned's thorough research on legends and mythology.

He even showed them that news article in which it came from Dr Lira Pendergrass herself that the fact that all six victims possessed some sort of identical mirrors they bought from an auction is 'potentially useless information', when, in the end, Atticus had found out himself (with the help of a few, almost unwilling, comrades) that these mirrors were the very cause, the very root, of their miseries.

And eventual demise.

Hypothetically, if the legend was true, the cursed mirrors were laid with the power to plague anyone who held them in their possession with the most terrible memories of their own grief and sorrow, slowly consuming the victim from inside out. Likened to a computer program, the curses on the mirror were conditioned to last until day three, tormenting their victims from inside out with resurfacing past nightmares or delusions of their dead loved ones appearing before them. This was a constant fact, from the legend of King Marcosias, to the reported witchcraft cases at Salem, and now, to the modern world, where Karl Miranda, Lakshmi Yamano, RJ M. Calvenriala, all the way up to Liana Andrés, all showed the signs and symptoms, until the third day came, counting from the time they came into the mirror's possession.

The third day, when the inevitable death happens.

Inevitable, because the pattern of the symptoms didn't fail.

Not even once.

Atticus stopped talking and looked at Amy and Nellie intently after that.

The two women were silent for a while, taking it all in. Amy seemed a bit disoriented and lost with all the information her brain is trying to process in the moment, (or perhaps she was too busy grappling with the fact that Ian was most probably under a curse and his death is already inevitable in the near future) but Nellie, well, based on her facial expressions, Atticus thought that she was slowly starting to…

"Wait…" the orange-haired girl said, trying to find it difficult to summon the words to ask even just one question. Well, Atticus couldn't blame her. There was too much information to soak in. But eventually, Nellie got the sentence correct in her head, and she tried to say it.

In a very, very, very sceptical tone, _exactly_ the way Dan and Ned said it.

"Don't you… _see_ the insanity of this?" Nellie asked, a disbelieving laugh almost about to escape her words—but thanks to the graveness of the situation with a life on the line, she was fortunately able to calm the bubbling down. "Are you saying that a forgotten mythic legend—an ancient, cursed _mirror_ , no less—could connect to a futuristic disease that the most expert of experts can't even figure out?" She crossed her arms as she arched an eyebrow so sceptical that it might have just about touched the ceiling. "You'd think it would be the rational Atticus Rosenbloom who'd be the one running around and proclaiming to the world that _mirrors don't cause diseases._ I mean, unless they have a living bacteria trapped in it or something. I hate to break it to you, kiddo, but this whole thing about mirrors and legends and curses, well, it's just absolutely crazy."

And so people didn't believe him. Again. Just like that day, when his mother had been…

" _I'm really sorry, my dear Rosenblooms," said the doctor, looking forlornly into the three Rosenbloom's eyes. Atticus, Jake, Mark Rosenbloom. The three men had only one woman in their life, and that was Astrid—a mother, a sister, a friend. And now she…_

" _She's gone," proclaimed the doctor. "I'm sorry."_

Atticus shook his head and got rid of the memory. _No_. He was not letting history repeat itself. He was determined _not_ to. People hadn't believed him back when Atticus had been accusing Dave Speminer of the crime. But things would be different now, because he would _make_ people believe him, whether they liked to or not.

Atticus had been prepared himself for this attack of scepticism—mythical stuff and things related to it are always, _always_ met by an arched eyebrow and a pair of crossed arms, wherever one may go. In fact, being the logical history geek that he was, he had been one of those people who believed that magic and curses _are_ ridiculous, that ghosts and stuff did _not_ exist. But he'd crossed out that belief long after his mom died.

He believed that _guardian_ angels are real—because his mom was one of those now, always accompanying him wherever he went, whatever decision he was to make. She was always there.

"Unless I show you proof," Atticus said, slowly, "you wouldn't be convinced, would you?"

Nellie's answer was firm. "Nope."

 _No choice but to let her experience it herself then,_ Atticus thought to himself. "Let's go to Ian's room. The alleged…mirror…it's sitting right there."

Now Amy spoke for the first time in long minutes. She still looked a bit bewildered from all of this, but all that influx of information didn't matter to her—her mind was still preoccupied with Ian and his safety, his wellbeing. Out of all the things that she'd just heard Atticus said, only one thing had stood out to her the most.

He is in danger, and she needed to save him. How, she didn't know, not _yet_ , but…

She'd be willing to do anything, _anything,_ just to make the old, smirking Ian come to surface again.

"I'd make things clearer later," Atticus promised her, seeming to have noticed that look playing on Amy's face. Atticus thought that explaining it all the more was a job he hated the most, but he had to say something to take Amy's mind off of this overload of details and start focusing on the more important: Ian's actual condition. So that's exactly what he said, saying, locking his eyes directly into hers, "For now, though, you'd really need to go check on Ian."

At least they were on the same page.

"Um…I-I…" Amy watched as both Nellie and Atticus got up from their seats, ready to proceed to Ian's room so Atticus could show the former au pair the 'proof'. When they didn't notice her stuttering, Amy actually raised her hand in the air, very timidly, as if reciting from her class. This actually got Nellie's attention.

"Yeah, kiddo?"

"W-well…" She uncertainly pointed to herself, then cleared her throat, frustrated at herself for not getting the words out properly. "Am I…am I supposed to—come with you guys—"

Nellie smiled, walked over to her kiddo, and pulled her into a hug. This shocked Amy a little bit, confused of how she should react and why Nellie was suddenly all so affectionate.

"No, you don't have to; you can go check on the Kabra," said her former au pair, smiling down proudly at her grown kiddo. "I don't really know what's going on, but whatever's going on, it sounds deadly to say the least." Amy flinched a bit at the keyword, _again_ , so Nellie mentally smacked herself and forced out some words, quickly. "And situations like this require someone who actually cared. And, frankly…" Nellie looked a bit guiltily at the ground as she said her next words. "Frankly, no one could care about him more than you do." Then she looked back into Amy's green eyes. "You care about people beyond reason. It makes me proud to have been your awesome babysitter—"

"Au pair," Amy corrected, giggling.

"—and all I'm saying here is, if you don't see it already, you're one awesome Madrigal."

Amy beamed, mostly because she was now given permission to get to the hospital already and see how Ian's doing, but also because of the compliment given to her. She found it quite funny that what Nellie said just actually matched her earlier thoughts, but it was all she needed that indicated Nellie's understanding even in the midst of uncertainty. One thing she liked about Nellie was that she didn't doubt her, fully putting her trust into everything she did.

Amy hugged her back. "Thanks for understanding."

The two breathed in each other's scent as they embraced for a few seconds more. The lone Atticus from afar awkwardly cleared his throat to remind them that he was still there, and as a spectator, no less. So, almost just as immediately, Nellie pulled back from their hug, laughing as she helped Amy to her feet. She clapped the younger redhead on the shoulder, saying, "Well, that's what I'm here for. Now go get Ian."

Amy nodded, and all but disappeared as she dashed out of the door.

With only the Gomez and Rosenbloom left at the dining room, Nellie said, "So, kiddo, are you going to show me this mirror of death and explain all this hullabaloo to me or what?"

The idea of explaining stuff that only met scepticism anyway didn't make Atticus very happy.

"Frankly, I choose the 'or what'."

* * *

The sky was a painting of bleariness as Amy quickly strode past the automatic hissing of the obedient glass doors, her feet barely even touching the smooth, tiled floor of the hospital grounds. It was all a blur as she approached the receptionist and was given the room number where Ian was confined, and now all that rang in Amy's ears was the sound of her own footsteps echoing in the vast white hallways after she got out of the elevator. She clutched her jacket tightly around her as she turned to the right of the hallway—

—and bumped right into Jake.

Amy was grateful for the excuse to catch the much needed air her aching lungs needed, but was also shocked at the sight before her eyes that she needed to blink several times in hopes to clear her vision of what exactly she was seeing.

But the image before her didn't change. It was still Jake, staring over at her with worry.

"Amy…?"

Amy raised a finger to quieten him first, bending over her knees to pump air into her lungs. After she was done, she stood straight up, eyes wide at Jake.

"Wh-why…what are _you_ doing here?" she asked. The question wasn't rude or uncouth—it was simply made out of a voice of genuine shock.

Jake found his hand reaching up to scratch the back of his neck, looking away almost sheepishly. And was it just her, or was there a tiny little pinkish blush spreading from down his neck and up to his ears?

"Well…" he said, struggling to find the words. "Well, I kinda…hopped into the ambulance before it completely ran off."

Amy couldn't help smiling, either teasingly or proudly, she didn't know.

"You did that…" she started, looking up at Jake with the finest green glow that he had ever seen from her. "…for Ian?"

"W-well…" Now Jake was clearly embarrassed. "Well yeah. Maybe. Sort of. I guess." Then he realized what he said and was immediately mortified beyond his worst nightmares, spluttering, "B-B-But not what you think, alright? It—it was just a—a—a one-time thing, okay? Don't expect me to do it again, it was just _a one-time thing!_ "

All earlier events of the day forgotten, Amy lunged herself right at Jake and tackled him in a bear hug.

"Oh, I _knew_ you cared about him!" she said through his shirt, laughing, smiling. "Why are you acting like that's something to be embarrassed of? That was actually very kind of you!"

Jake stiffened at the hug and at her words. He didn't know if he was to return the hug or what (well, he _was_ still a little pissed off about what he witnessed Amy and Ian were doing alone in Amy's room) but at the moment, it was really hard to get angry at her right now. She seemed genuinely…happy. It amused Jake to no end that no matter how high she got onto the pedestal of the Cahill family, no matter how rich she got, no matter how great her name had made it to the family, the very things that made her happy were _these_ kinds of things. The simplest things. He never realized that he'd ever be able to make her happy by doing…by _acting_ like he cared for that Kabra.

And, no, no, and _no_ , the only reason he hopped into that ambulance in the first place was _not_ because he cared—he only did that act because of Amy's sake, nothing else.

Jake cleared his throat, unsure of how to move or what to say, afraid that one wrong step would break the fragile spell that had suddenly fallen upon the both of them, hugging like this in the middle of the hallway. But just as he was about to put his arms around her to return the hug, she pulled away, all too soon. Jake hurriedly put his arms behind him, acting as if nothing happened.

"Well then…" Amy cleared her throat, looking away, a mild blush spreading over her cheeks as if she'd just realized how embarrassing it was to tackle someone so randomly in the hallway. "Ah…so well…how is Ian doing?" Her eyes looked up to Jake, their former green glow now replaced by a mist of worry. "What did the doctors say?"

"He…has a pretty high fever, but otherwise he's currently on stable condition." The Rosenbloom tried to push down that rising feeling of discontentment that threatened to mix itself into his words, a little disappointed that their little moment was over. "I told them about the possibility that he might have the Mystery Syndrome. They already called on some Dr Liu, a specialist who tried to treat the other six patients of the syndrome—he's on his way to check on him. There's still the existing chance that Ian's hallucinations didn't actually come from the syndrome—it may be from his high fever instead, we don't know. So yeah...we don't have to assume yet that he has the syndrome."

"Oh, good…" Amy shoulders seemed to slump, releasing some tension, although a little of it still remained etched onto her downcast face. "Good. I guess…I guess that's good to hear."

And then there was a painfully awkward silence, lasting for several long seconds that seemed to drag on as the two of them just stood there, face-to-face, with no one else who might eavesdrop in their conversation from left to right. Amy was twitching with the zipper on her jacket, Jake trying to look fascinated at the plain white tiles that covered the ceiling. Until—

"Jake—"

"Amy—"

They paused, realizing that they had spoken in unison, looked at each other, and then looked away again.

"Oh, okay, you first," Amy said, waving her fingers at him to signal him to move on, a little red on the ears.

"No, no, no, you first," Jake automatically replied, running a hand awkwardly through his black hair.

"No, you."

"No, you."

"Jake…"

"Amy…"

Amy closed her eyes and decided to just get on with it, spilling her words out in a pathetic, waterfall rush. "Jake. Ian and I were together in my room, yes. And we may have had accidentally…slept together, yes again." The mortification was getting more and more unbearable by the second, because by the looks of his suddenly raging eyes, Jake seemed to be thinking it _wrongly_. "But that was it," Amy quickly added. "Jake, that was it. Believe me. I wouldn't _ever_ turn my back on you. Never."

She inhaled a breath, waiting for the curt reply that she was sure to come. And, surely enough, there it came.

"Then what _were_ you doing?" he asked, that former haughtiness seeping itself in.

Amy blew out the air from her puffed cheeks.

"Let's take a seat, this could take a while."

If she had to tell every detail, then she will, just to make him understand. Except of course, for the fact that Ian had almost murdered her. The last thing Amy needed was more complications from her boyfriend; the last thing she needed was Jake waiting to kill Ian. Ian was in an already fragile state—Amy needed everyone to be on his side right now.

They all had to be in this together, and the first step was always...

_To care._

* * *

Dr Jinjing Liu was a renowned psychologist in his own right, highly respected and recognized for his excellent publications on psychology and his mostly successful dealings with even the most deadly of serial killers. He stood straight up like the old professional he was, his white coat draping over his lean body. Having been from Asiatic origins, his friendly, pint-sized eyes were a glowing, penetrating black—but hidden beneath is a wise intelligence that could read through people as if they were transparent books. He whispered to the nurse beside him to leave the room for him for a little while, and the young, brunette nurse worriedly looked over to the person lying on the bed, this young boy who was the alleged seventh victim of the so-called Mystery Syndrome. Then, after shuddering visibly, the nurse thanked the doctor as she obediently and quietly left the room, letting the pneumatic door silently swing to a close as she ran off.

The boy from across the room just continued to stare at him as he watched the scene play out in front of him, still that question posed in his light brown eyes, glowing against the ceiling lights with the strange colour of amber.

' _Who…who are you?'_

And, immediately the doctor understood why the young brunette nurse had taken off in such a hurry. Dr Liu himself felt terrified of that expression that seemed to hide some sort of pain, anger, hatred, he didn't know what, that could unexpectedly lash out at him the moment he snapped. The doctor took every single precaution to make every move as softly and gently as he could ever manage—he didn't want to break whatever fragile spell that seemed to make this boy the stable patient that he currently (thankfully) was.

The doctor felt a little sort of chill quickly zapping down through his spine, a reaction barely akin to uneasiness as he quietly took his steps forward, the patient's eyes curiously following him as he did so. Dr Liu tried to calm himself down, what with this boy's steady, uneasy stare, but he found himself to actually be unable to. He had seen this very same expression from the rest of the six victims of the syndrome who had all unfortunately died under his and several other scholars' watch, and he just couldn't help feeling… _guilty_. That boy's stare reminded him of all the other victims who actually _died_ , frighteningly staring at him the same way it eerily shook him to the bone.

The bad thing about being a doctor is that he had to take the guilt for every person who died because of his failure to save them. Dr Liu had felt utterly useless these days, with all the relatives of the Mystery Syndrome's victims continually lashing out on him through those mournful tears that splashed upon their cheeks. Just hours ago, Mrs Tina Andrés had slapped him on the face as she jittered away in incomprehensible French, completely having gone mad at the fact that her daughter, Liana, died because of the syndrome—because of his broken promises of healing her and preventing her death.

He clenched his fists, staring right back at the boy who stared at him too. Liu understood their grief. He received a report from a nurse that this one named Ian Kabra, born of English and Indian origins, _might_ have the Mystery Syndrome, as well. He had been told that this gravely serious speculation came from a friend that introduced himself as a Rosenbloom, though he wasn't very sure of the first name. The only thing that stuck to Liu's mind, among all the other details that the nurse had given him, however, was the fact that this new patient was of English origins.

…another Londoner.

He was mad enough that he and his other colleagues still couldn't find out the reason behind why each and every victim seems to have some sort of connection to the country of England. The World Health Organization is being a lot useless in information, as well. Basically the doctors still have no idea where this mental illness came from, much less how to cure it.

At the least, though, Dr Jinjing Liu is able to recognize the condition in after a few questions—his doctorate in psychology made him quite the professional in the field. Because the weird thing about anyone who's inflicted by the Mystery Syndrome is that they would all answer the very same thing when asked the same question, and today he's going to do just that, hoping so badly that the speculations were wrong—although, from the looks of it, is already very far from that ever happening.

Through his dismal thoughts, though, he smiled, walked across the room, took a seat, and decided to start talking to this young lad, Ian—desperate to at least be able to pull through even just one of the victims past whatever demons that continued to torment the very life of their minds into insanity. He wasn't sure what or how exactly he was going to do it, but he was going to do his best. He wouldn't have immediately flown through the Atlantic Ocean just to see this young lad if he didn't care—because, actually, he _did_.

Ever since he'd taken his Hippocratic oath as an official doctor, he'd vowed to care.

"Hello." Dr Jinjing Liu stretched a kind, gentle smile that any practiced psychologist would know how to pull off even if he were stuck in the midst of the most horrible of thoughts. "What is your name?"

* * *

But Ian wasn't even listening.

The strange man wore a suit that looked more like a lab coat. He had introduced himself as a doctor, specifically a…psychologist, maybe? He couldn't quite remember. But why would he need a psychologist? Ian was sure that he wasn't mentally ill…was he? And why were the walls so blankly white? He didn't remember his room being painted white—and from what he was always accustomed to, his room was always, _always_ dimly lit, while this one was so bright that it hurt his eyes to even look up at the ceiling. But the air…it smelled faintly of medicine. Maybe he was in a hospital? He didn't understand. Was he sick?

But every time he tried to answer even a single one of those questions, his head would burst out in pain, not allowing him to take a look back at his memories to even try to remember what on earth had just happened in the last few hours. He had snippets of memories, being dragged on a stretcher, ridden away by an ambulance, other small details like that, and—what? Jake? Why on the bloody Earth was _that_ sickening Rosenbloom even in his memories? He'd try to answer this, but he would only end up shutting his eyes tight to relieve his head of the pain, and he would find his hand reaching up to his temple in efforts to soothe it.

The doctor in front of him stopped from talking, and worriedly reached over Ian. But Ian only said he was fine, and urged the doctor to continue droning on about whatever he was droning on. The Lucian felt so out of his element that he had completely shut him out and just let the man do his job—he saw his mouth moving, but he wasn't really paying any of his attention. Doing so would only worsen his headache.

It was slowly becoming obvious to Ian that he was in a hospital—besides feeling so feverishly cold, there was a dextrose that hung on an IV pole, a tube attached onto his wrist. He didn't know his condition was so bad, even going so far as to be confined in a hospital. But if he _did_ have a fever, wouldn't Amy just insist on treating him with over-the-counter medicines at home? Fever really wasn't a very serious illness no matter how annoyed he felt because of that insidious cold that kept on piercing through his hot skin, (oh, curse that bloody air-conditioner—couldn't they make it just a little _less_ from being on full blast mode?) but with this psychologist that kept on talking to him like a tick-ridden old cow, even though he didn't understand the entire situation at all, Ian felt that this condition he was currently in must be serious.

Yes, well, the old cow kept on talking so slowly as if Ian was a six-year-old— _please_ , Ian was _unwell_ , not illiterate—but Ian was still able to grab the sense that somehow…the situation he was in wasn't a very happy news. He would ask himself why, but…but…

He closed his eyes, readying himself for another bout of headache.

But no. The pain didn't come.

Surprised, Ian opened his eyes, lowering down the hand that had unconsciously reached up to his temple while he had had his eyes closed. But the sight that now beheld him immediately made him want to close his eyes again—not this. Not this _again_.

But of course, whatever invisible force inside him _constrained_ him, harshly prying his eyes open so he wouldn't miss one single second of that horrible nightmare.

This…this was the day he cursed the surname 'Cahill'.

The day when his world came crashing down to an end.

_The day Natalie died._

He stood, unmoving, right in the middle of all the chaos. The fighting noises rang out in his ears, with every single Vesper trying to launch themselves right at the weaponless Cahills on due command. Each and every one of his cousins, although through pathetic attempts, tried to punch, kick, or, at the very least, avoid to get hurt by the fully grown men that just kept on attacking them like a stampede of wild animals. There was Amy and Dan, fighting side-by-side. There was Jonah, singing as he delivered an uppercut right at a man's jaw, and then gracefully jumping backwards to avoid a kick like the expert dancer he was. Hamilton used his raw strength, pushing it to his fullest advantage as he grabbed one soldier, spun him around the air, and threw him to target a dozen other soldiers to smash them against the wall like in a bowling game. Sinead was with her gun, Evan at his mightiest, Fiske and Nellie pushing their boundaries to fight even though Fiske's withering age and the au pair's throbbing shoulder threatened to make them collapse to the ground in extreme exhaustion.

He watching all of his relatives fight for their life and for the world, feeling a rather uplifting sensation rise up in him—proud to have been born a Cahill. But that blissful second was cut off and forgotten when, suddenly, all the noise disappeared to an eerie, quiet ringing sound as his eyes fell upon two particular figures, fighting alongside each other, two heartbeats beating as one. His eyes widened, his whole body stiffened like a statue, frozen right in place, not knowing what to do, how to react, how to even _move_.

The sight was so staggering that his heartbeat had raced inside his chest, pounding against his ribcage that it was a wonder how he could stay so still, so frozen in place. He watched as the two figures moved through the crowd of mutts and apes in their cheap-looking armour, moving shoulder by shoulder as one tried fight off a Vesper that would sneakily come from behind. They moved as one, Ian acting on the defensive to protect his sister while Natalie tried her best to squash any Vesperian cockroach that threatened to break her nails.

Although this time, Natalie didn't even think about her nails as she stubbornly separated from Ian despite his wails not to do it. She determinedly grabbed a discarded iron bar from the floor, and, the power of her fast-moving legs fuelled by rage, she jumped into the air, ready to pounce upon the inhuman, humming beast that was to end it all.

The Machina Fini Mundi.

He tried to move. He really did. He wanted to shout, to warn her, to pull her back, into an embrace, right into the safety of his arms—but, really, he did nothing. He just stood there, watching himself helplessly stand as well, watching the onslaught of the tragedy that was about to fall upon him and his sister. The crackle of the electricity flowing through her body was a bludgeoning sound to his ears; it paralyzed him, as if _he_ himself was the one who was being tortured. But he just…stood there.

He'd done nothing.

Ian closed his eyes, a pain coming over his head like a massive tidal wave of emotions. His breath had hitched, and he was tightly gripping onto the bed sheets that covered half his body, little droplets of tears dripping down to wet the thick cloth. He looked away, mortified of the presence of the doctor who sat from across him. He felt embarrassed of crying in front of someone else, but he couldn't bloody help it.

He did nothing to help her, and he was aware of it. He admitted his defeat—alright, _alright_ , he had been a useless brother, and he knew that very well. He just begged his mind to stop playing that scene over and over again, each and every day of his life—he didn't want to be reminded of that painful event that brought nothing over to him but irritated, red eyes. He wanted to forget it, but the memory bank of his own brain refused to make everything a little easier. The misery of his own life just liked to torture him like this. Even he, Ian Kabra, can tired. He was _human_. He was so exhausted that he'd welcome death any time right now—he wanted peace. _Peace_. Was that too much to ask for? He was tired of being a Cahill, he was tired of thinking of mourning over things, he was _tired_ of all of it.

There was a silence that befell upon the room as Ian tried to dry away those disgusting little tears with the heel of his hand, still looking away from that doctor who had the gall to sit over there as if he was a welcomed spectator, which he absolutely was _not_. But Ian was shocked beyond belief when he actually felt the doctor's hand rest reassuringly upon his shoulders, squeezing it gently to let him know he understood. When Ian risked a look back, he saw the doctor's eyes gleaming with that look of sympathy.

And it was just then when Ian realized that he had said all his thoughts aloud.

"I do understand, Ian," said the kindly doctor. "If you're tired, then…then you should rest."

It felt like a bite of an ant. But he wasn't able to figure out what just happened, because suddenly he felt himself falling into the peace of a dreamless sleep.

Peace that he knew was only temporary.

* * *

He suddenly bolted upright from his bed as a sudden spark of a giant lightning clashed through the night sky with a hollering thunder following after. Then, breathless and quickly, he opened the first compartment of his small bedside drawer and fumbled through the materials in it—and then heavily sighed with relief when he found his newly-bought mirror, resting where it was originally supposed to be, the topaz gem in the middle glinting back at him as if reassuringly.

So. That was all a dream, no need to worry about anything. All a dream…all a dream. He was just about to plop himself back onto the comforts of his pillow, but he suddenly saw a single piece of a white flower petal, floating down in the air until it landed onto his waiting hand.

Wide-eyed, Vikram Kabra enclosed his fingers around the said flower petal, and then finally slumped down onto the pillow of his bed and stayed like that until sunrise.


	10. Of Matches and Memories

There was the sound of soft laughing that filled the empty white hallways. The two of them, Jake and Amy, were settled on two hard-seated waiting chairs located just outside the room where Ian was confined, talking to each other. Amy had wanted to go right into the room to check on her distant Kabra cousin ever since she had gotten here, but the nurse, a young brunette, had informed them that Dr Jinjing Liu wanted to personally see Ian alone, forcing Amy to wait. To pass the time, she just decided to take a seat and elaborately explain to Jake the earlier events of the day that he had so unpleasantly misinterpreted.

Of course, she had purposefully left out the more objectionable parts of her encounter with the…well, for the lack of a better word, the delirious Ian. There was no need for Jake to know anything about him possessing a gun by his side. For safety purposes, and to also quell her own paranoia, she had confiscated all the dangerous things that she discovered Ian to have in his possession—it seemed as if he still kept his dart gun, and a mini-collection of poisons at that. It made her shudder. Once again she'd seen a glimpse of who Ian might have become if he'd followed the footsteps of his mother.

But Amy knew Ian didn't want that. He and his sister didn't want to be anything like their parents. That was why they had chosen to be on the Cahill side in the first place, abandoning the darkness for the light.

But by having joined the Cahills…

_Had they really?_

Was it really the darkness which they had abandoned? Had light _really_ shone upon their lives once they had joined the side where Amy and Dan belonged? Was joining them really the decision that would have made their lives better? After all, if the Kabras _didn't_ join the Cahills and decided to stay by their mother's side back at the Gauntlet…

They might have won the Clue Hunt. If they'd stayed by Isabel's side, their little family might have been the most powerful people in the world. Isabel wouldn't have had shot her own daughter in the foot and caused her to live in trauma the rest of her short life. Ian wouldn't have been left alone with his sister when both— _both_ —of their parents had them practically disowned. If they remained by Isabel, they wouldn't have lost their titles, their legacy, their names as heirs, their riches and luxury, their potential for a powerful future. They had too much to sacrifice, yet too little to gain. Or maybe none at all.

It was when the Kabras had decided to join the 'light', that they'd _lost_ everything. Choosing to fight alongside Amy and Dan…

It was what destroyed their family.

It made Amy wonder…

Was it…possible that Ian thought of it this way?

 _Of course,_ she immediately told herself. Of course it was. Of course he thought of it this way. He must have. It was _him_ , after all, who saw every angle of this terrible web of lies and deception by standing in the middle of it all.

It made her feel terrible that Ian might have had these thoughts every day. It made her feel terrible that Ian might've had felt like he made the wrong decision in joining them. It made her feel terrible that her friend's every waking moment was marked with questions of what he might have done, so all the terrible things that had befallen upon him didn't have to happen at all. Well, she knew that everything was _Isabel's_ fault to begin with, her greediness and lust for power, but…it made her feel terrible that she might've been part of the host of people who caused him this sorrow. It made Amy feel terrible, just by _thinking_ about it. But she thought that this was all probably nothing.

Because Ian most likely felt this terrible feeling all the time.

Amy…she worried about him. What with the delusions he's apparently been having with his sister and all, she knew that he was reaching his breaking point. She knew that he was strong and that he can brave these thing over, but her initial belief had weathered off when she witnessed, first-hand, how Ian could become, once he…let it all go. She worried that he might lose control again. And she didn't want him _hurting_ himself.

Or worse.

These were the thoughts that ran in her mind as she recounted the story behind her and Ian to Jake's listening ears. After several minutes of talking to each other, the two eventually became on civil terms, until, finally, that normal comfort settled over Jake and Amy once the two realized their own separate mistakes in the matter. At the way they were now laughing at some immature joke that Jake had just made, one would think that the events of the past fifty minutes hadn't even happened at all.

Eventually, the laughing quieted down and a silence settled over them. But it was not awkward. It was actually the most pleasant sound that Jake had ever heard. So comfortable and peaceful it was, that the release of tension from his shoulders was clearly visible as he snuggled deeper onto the hard-seated chair, almost forgetting how the hard plastic was making his back ache a little.

"So, in the end," Jake said quietly, looking over at Amy. "That was just all a big misunderstanding."

"Yes," the girl murmured, nodding absentmindedly as she stared through space with a smile on her face that looked…contemplative. "It was all just a big misunderstanding. On both our parts."

Jake felt all his anger toward his girlfriend dissipate as he thought about the version of the story that Amy had just told him. The story was almost hilarious—of course, hadn't Ian's condition been so…alarming. He'd never thought that that Kabra was even capable of harbouring such strong feelings inside himself. All Ian was to Jake's eyes was a heartless snake who had ruthlessly tried to kill his girlfriend in the past. Until now. It surprised him that almost everything he knew about the Kabra was actually wrong. Losing his sister, Natalie, might have felt like losing an entire family for Ian. It was strange, but, even if Jake knew nothing about the two of them, he'd almost started to pity Ian right then and there.

Jake had felt utterly embarrassed as Amy recounted her story, though. It mortified him that while someone was practically going through something bad, still, all he'd cared about was himself. He'd been selfishly jealous, only thinking about himself when someone was worse off. All the jealousy he felt at seeing the two of them together was something he was growing to be disgusted of. Despite that, though, at least he was starting to learn that listening to all sides first before jumping to conclusions would save him from a lot of negative thinking.

He learned his lesson now.

"I…" The Rosenbloom looked down at his fingers, almost guiltily. "I promise to listen before I go assuming things."

"Um, I won't promise," said Amy as she turned her head to face him, a look of mild mischief written all over her face, "but I'll try not to lash out on you again."

Jake frowned as he recalled Amy's dark mood towards him back at the manor, when she thought that _he_ was the one wrestling Ian, when, in fact, Jake was only actually trying to help. To be honest, Jake had been a bit insulted that his girlfriend would even think of him as such a barbaric barbarian; but in the end, he guessed he shouldn't blame her for thinking of him that way. Given what had just happened between the both of them, well…it was only fair.

"Well," Jake replied with a lopsided smile, "I guess it's better if you're going to at least try."

The redheaded girl laughed lightly at his pouting response. Jake flashed a look of disbelief her way—he couldn't believe it was so easy for this girl to laugh at such shallow things. But he guessed that was just one of the qualities that completely made him fall for her.

Much too soon, though, her laugh ended, eyes widening. Then she suddenly bolted up from her chair to approach the person who had just come out of Ian's room, who closed the door as quietly as he could.

"Dr Liu!" she exclaimed, rushing over to the doctor whom she had heard so much about.

"Good evening, Doctor," said Jake, who had approached from behind Amy.

"Er…" The Asian doctor regarded them with mild confusion. Apparently he didn't think that the two Americans had any resemblance to his new patient, whom he'd easily assumed to be British. "Are you relatives of Mr Ian Kabra?"

"Yes," the girl answered, firmly enough to leave him no space for more questions. She held out her hand. "My name is Amy Cahill, and this is—"

"Jake Rosenbloom."

"Jinjing Liu, pleased to meet you." The Asian doctor shook both of their hands, that little bit of stiffness in his muscles making him seem a tad uptight. It made Amy wonder briefly exactly what had happened in that room. Amy braced herself for the news to come—she could already tell it wasn't going to be good. So the doctor immediately went on with it, with a practiced tone of formality.

"Your speculations about the young lad Ian were correct." He was awfully blunt about it as he stated it matter-of-factly. "He has the Mystery Syndrome."

The doctor took his audience's silence as permission to continue.

"As you know, we still don't know the cause of the syndrome. Much less a cure. My colleagues back in London are working on it, as well as the W.H.O., but to no avail as of late. I think I should ready you for the consequences. All the earlier victims of this mental illness had died precisely three days after the symptoms had started to appear."

"Th…three _days_ … _?_ " Amy's voice squeaked with dread.

The doctor closed his eyes. He'd probably seen that same expression on Amy's face several times now in consecutive days, and he felt terrible for seeing it again. He sighed, steeled himself, and opened his eyes once again to give her a prepared response.

"I'm sorry. But without medicine, statistics is the only thing backing us up now. And to tell you…the statistics behind this syndrome is being very frighteningly accurate. I'm really sorry, but I needed to warn you of how this might…end." He paused to let his audience sink that in. Then he continued, gently.

"May I know when Mr Ian's symptoms had started to appear?"

Amy recalled what she and Nellie had been talking about earlier, and she clenched her fists, just at the thought of it.

"Yesterday," she whispered, in a voice so barely audible that even Jake had to strain his ears just to hear it. But apparently the doctor had heard it clearly, even looking as if he had expected this answer.

"Well then, Miss Cahill. If yesterday had been the onslaught of his disease, just as you say, that means today is the second day." He paused, and looked over Amy, who had her eyes pinned down at the ground as if she wanted to avoid whatever he was going to say next. He'd originally planned to imply her that tomorrow is the third day, but the kindly doctor decided to rephrase his next words.

"Well, all I have to tell you is that we are going to do our best. To tend to him properly, we would need to transfer Mr Kabra to London so that the other experts might look after him, but first I am going to make a few calls to arrange it. I'll let you know when it's confirmed. Immediately after, we'll leave for London, as early as tomorrow morning."

* * *

Atticus could hear the thudding of his own steps as he dashed past the hospital's white hallways, knowing that the set of footfalls that followed just behind him belonged to Ned. He ignored the confused looks of the nurses as the two of them dashed by, with Ned throwing out apologies from behind him for all the running and confusion that they were causing. At long last, when Atticus turned to the right in a sharp twist in the hallway, he stopped, having finally found the person he was looking for all this time.

"Oh, Jake!" he said, a little too loudly, bending down his knees to breathe in air, before he straightened himself up again, running towards his older brother. Ned caught up from behind him, and, at the sight of Jake, he said, "Hey! We've been looking all over for—"

Amy cleared her throat to interrupt him, awkwardly turning her head to point with her chin at the person standing in front of her. It was only then that Atticus and Ned finally acknowledged the presence of a doctor. The two newcomers immediately looked embarrassed, but thankfully Atticus still had a functioning mouth to at least blurt out, albeit awkwardly, "Oh, uh, h-hi, good evening, mister doctor."

"He is Dr Jinjing Liu, the doctor attending to Ian," Amy helpfully introduced.

"Oh." Atticus scratched the back of his neck, a trait he mostly got from Jake. "Heh-heh. Right, mister…Doctor Liu, a pleasure."

The doctor chuckled warmly at the eleven-year-old boy's obviously uncomfortable stammering. "It's a pleasure as well," he responded good-naturedly.

Then he turned to Amy and Jake, reaching into his suit to pull out a business card each for both of them. "Well then, here's my emergency line; call if you need anything. Oh, and if you can, Mister Rosenbloom, Miss Cahill, please bring young Ian's parent or guardian to me so I can talk to them, okay? I'm available, even if I have to meet up with them in the middle of the night."

Jake and Amy exchanged meaningful glances at that. Ian didn't _have_ any parents, or any guardians, at least none that they could immediately call, but the generous doctor didn't even seem to acknowledge their little exchange as he simply continued to talk.

"I'll be waiting for his parent or guardian tonight. And yes, even if it's past visiting hours," he repeated, as if to emphasize the urgent undertones in his gentle, professional voice. "Just tell the security guards that I gave you permission; show them the business cards I gave you. I'd make sure that they'd know what to do." Then he turned to the rest of them, nodding to Ned and Atticus. "If you excuse me."

The foursome waited in silence until the doctor disappeared into another hallway. And then, awkwardly, Jake started, "So…" He looked at Ned and Atticus. "What's up?"

Ned stepped forward. "Your little brother here insists that you come with us."

A sceptical eyebrow was immediately arched. "What? Why?"

"Just come with us," said Atticus, coming up to his older brother. "Please?"

Jake uncertainly looked behind him to stare at Amy. "But…"

"Go on," the girl said, already reaching for the knob of Ian's room door. "I'll…I'll stay here with Ian. Tell Uncle Fiske to go here, too, to talk to the doctor. And while you're at it, tell him to bring me some clothes and food, okay? I'm…going to stay here for the night."

Jake gave his girlfriend a dumfounded look. Unwanted jealousy was already creeping up his spine—and the feeling was certainly _not_ something that he anticipated to feel. They had just made up and Jake didn't want to put up a fight, but he was still left uncomfortable at the thought that his Amy, _his_ Amy, was going to stay here and spend the night with Cobra. _Cobra_ , of all people!

But he felt all his anger diminish as Amy stared at him with eyes that was clearly trying to get one message across—just one.

 _Please_.

"Well then," he said, the surprisingly sincere words tumbling out of his mouth before he could even process what he was doing, before his jealous inner self could rant on about how utterly unacceptable this was, before he started to hesitate about even saying these words at all.

"Take good care of…" Cobra. _Should I say Cobra?_ "…Ian, okay?"

Amy beamed up, her eyes lighting up like the sun. She nodded at him. "I will. Thanks for understanding, Jake."

* * *

Once upon a time, Ned had gotten his license but he wasn't very diligent in attending to his driving school.

After Atticus had sandwiched Jake into the car's cramped seats (much to the older Rosenbloom's chagrin, because he couldn't even sit his rear _properly_ ), Ned stepped onto the pedal and the car suddenly sped so fast that Jake had to release a rather embarrassing scream when they barely even survived crossing through the intersection and nearly got smashed by a giant, million-megaton truck of cement. One could just imagine Jake's utter relief when Ned was forced to stop because of a red light. That was the only time Jake had the breath to even speak a word.

"What's the big rush!" Jake blew it out more of as a statement than a question. Wild-eyed, he outrageously pointed from behind him, referring to the intersection where the threesome had almost died. "We nearly got mauled by that truck, you know!"

Ned just shrugged. "I don't know. I'm just taking orders."

"From?"

"Your brother over there."

Jake took one look at his brother. And lost it too.

"Will someone just _explain_ to me what's going on?" he demanded, his tone obviously exhausted. He wanted to get some answers before Ned once again stepped onto the pedal and Jake would be too frozen in his seat to speak again. Thirty-nine seconds to go before the green light—they _better_ explain this fast. Oh, great. 39. A bad omen. "Like, _hello_ , I'm _completely_ oblivious here!"

"Don't ask me." Ned flashed him an equally oblivious look that surprised Jake. "I don't even know. That little fella refuses to speak. The only reason I drove for him is because he's annoyingly persistent." He gave the younger a sideways glance. "No offense, Atticus."

"Me? Annoyingly persistent?" Atticus chuckled, reminiscently. "In actuality, I'm more flattered than offended."

Jake ran a hand down his face and looked beside his brother. Sometimes even _he_ could be so stubborn it almost rivalled Jake's own unbeatable level of stubbornness.

" _Atticus…"_

"But if I tell you now, you won't help me!"

Jake controlled his patience. "How are we supposed to help you if we don't even know _what_ you want us to do in the first place? You're not making any sense!"

"I'll just tell you later when we get there!"

"Oh, boy." Jake sighed, clearly deadbeat of all this ridiculous squabbling around. "I'm going to get _off_ this car, jump into the road, and let that truck flatten me like a pancake if you don't tell me what _really_ is going on, like, right _. Now_."

The menace in Jake's voice was enough to make Atticus surrender.

"Okay, okay, _alright!_ " Atticus suddenly looked so stressed that he just might break like a rubber band. He rubbed his face with his hands so exhaustedly that he suddenly looked like he had aged for eighty years. Atticus thought that it would be so much easier if only he _didn't_ have to explain himself, but unfortunately, he had to do it if he wanted Ned and Jake's help. He had to explain it and lose his dignity for the sake of the person who he wanted to save.

Jake braced himself. He felt from Atticus' tense muscles that whatever was going to come out of his younger brother's mouth would certainly _not_ be the most pleasant words he would ever hear.

"So I found this ancient Norse magic spell written in _The Ancient Folktales of Norse Mythology_ and it showed instructions on how to call upon on spirits," began Atticus. "And, right now, we really need to call upon the spirit of the late Glinda Godfrey, because she might just know what kind of cure Ian would need for the Mystery Syndrome, which, in actuality, was the curse of the mirror that was given to Glinda by her mother, Esmeralda, and that sort of like circles around an ancient forgotten legend that we really don't have the time for me to explain all over again, _because_ I am _tired_ of talking and explaining all too-heavily detailed stuff. So, it would _really_ help if you just stop asking questions and follow my lead on doing this magic spell, because I _really_ need to talk to Glinda about cures if we want Ian to _survive_ this deadly syndrome, and, as you know, tomorrow might just be his last day—we really need Glinda's help because she's one of the Seven Sisters who were behind the actual curse, and they might just have an idea on how to cure it; and I am _not_ going to explain it all over again to you, Jake, in case you are confused!"

Atticus took a breath. Jake and Ned—and a random motorist from outside the car—were staring at Atticus.

Even though the mountainous heaps of words were still trying to jam themselves into Jake's throbbing brain, he was able to get the main idea of what his younger brother was trying to say here.

And the concept of subtlety was chucked out of the window.

" _WHAT?!"_ he blurted out, ready to tear out Atticus' noggin to check if his brain was still there. _Okay, had_ he _lost it, too?_ Did his history-loving little brother's rationality suddenly took a, what, a _vacation_ somewhere out in the Bahamas? What did this nutty little nut of a necromantic maniac _do_ to his beloved genius brother? Like, _really?_ Did he just suggest that they talk to a dead person to ask for a cure to the Mystery Syndrome? Call upon a _spirit_? By using a, what, a _magic spell?!_ Next thing they'd do was that they'd kidnap a fairy to get ransom for their fairy gold. Was that the best, most _rational_ solution that the great Atticus Rosenbloom can _ever_ think of for the dilemma in their hands now?

Or…was he joking? Jake stared deep into Atticus' eyes, searching for the possibility that his little brother might only be playing a prank on him. But he saw the seriousness there.

And the desperateness.

No. No. Atticus wasn't joking. Jake knew that expression of desperateness all too well, and he knew that the feeling was terrible. Atticus was seriously implying that they ask whoever this Glinda was for a cure.

_What was going on?_

Ned seemed to be picking up Jake's same thoughts as he simply stared at Atticus like he'd just sprouted nine dragon heads. Atticus, on the other hand, looked like he'd been expecting these kinds of reactions from both of them. These faces in front of him were _just_ the exact duplicate faces of the shocked expressions of Dan and Phoenix earlier when he had told them of his plan. The young Rosenbloom covered his face with his hands, not wanting to see those faces of disbelief and scepticism all over again, wishing that the red light would just blink itself away into green so all they just had to do now was speed away and to get actual things done. What was taking those bloody thirty-nine seconds so _long?_

Atticus was well aware that the plan he had in mind was ridiculous, but, really, with the syndrome having no other known cure, he had no other leads to lean onto. Because he just couldn't stand doing here nothing—he had to do anything, _something_. He had no choice but to talk to at least one of the Seven Sisters—because they were the ones who created this curse in the first place. He understood that the Seven Sisters must only be a fragment of a long-forgotten legend, but really, with the time running out, what other options did he have left on his table? He was _desperate_ , and desperate needs call for desperate measures. If Ian was going to die tomorrow on his third day, then Atticus would need to act fast—and this was the only solution with the fastest method, so he was going to have to cling to it.

And desperately he will.

It crossed his mind earlier that maybe, just _maybe,_ the Seven Sisters had an idea on how to, well, _break_ the spell. This second day was close to being over, what with the night plunging them deeper into its depths by the ticking second, and tomorrow was the dreaded third day. Most probably Ian's last. But if he wanted to prevent any deaths from happening _again_ , he really had no other choice. Calling upon Glinda Godfrey was really the only solution he could ever think of…and no matter how nutty anyone else thought of this plan, he was _not_ going to back away from doing this magic spell. Not without trying it first. He wouldn't be able to bear it if Ian died because he didn't try doing what could be done—even if it involved asking questions to dead spirits.

Maybe being desperate wasn't so bad after all, if it pushed him to do absolutely _anything_ to find a way out.

A dramatic silence had settled in the car.

"You," Ned said, pointing at his direction a finger of indictment, "are absolutely _bonkers_."

Atticus only buried his face deeper into his palms, helpless. "Don't remind me."

"Yeah," Jake dryly agreed, "because that's _my_ job."

* * *

Back in the Cahill mansion, specifically in the attic, Nellie, Phoenix, and Dan were waiting for the arrival of their other comrades. Nellie was busy drawing something on the floor, and Phoenix was rummaging through the attic's dusty crates, trying to look for a candle.

And Dan was doing nothing. He was sitting on a rocking chair, hands crossed over his chest, his eyes unusually contemplative as his mind travelled back through time—a time where all was perfect, a time where all was peaceful, and all was bright and sunny as it could ever be on a regular Cahill reunion. It was a flashback Dan would never forget. He didn't know why, but for some reason, whenever he felt sad, he would simply conjure up this memory to make him feel even just a tad happy. He couldn't even understand _why_.

That peaceful day started like this…

* * *

"WHAT?!"

Amy and Ian cringed at the shrillness of his voice. The Kabra had to put his hand onto his face to swipe away some spit that had so unfortunately landed themselves onto the surface of his handsome yet utterly disgusted face.

"How American of you, Daniel," Ian remarked, all too unhappily wiping his now-contaminated hand with an alcohol-induced kerchief. "Perhaps you're forgetting that the reason Natalie hasn't come out of her room for _precisely_ eight days and seventeen hours is because of _you_. As his brother, I would really appreciate it if you even made some small effort to apologize, and, for once, took matters with a serious face."

"No, no way." Dan made an 'X' with his arms as if he was about to get attacked by a zombie. "There is no way I'm going to apologize. It's not _my_ fault she took that prank too personally!"

"How many times do I _have_ to _tell_ you, you _dweeb?_ It _is_ personal, Dan," Amy pointed out, exasperation showing in her features as she tried to explain it all over again. "That dress was a gift from her mother, and you just _destroyed_ it. And just in case you're forgetting your attitude, even without the dress involved, you _still_ have to apologize for throwing grease-filled balloons at her."

"How many times do I _have_ to _tell_ you," he lashed back, "that grease balloon was meant for _Hamilton!_ Ugh!" Dan had jammed himself onto the plush sofa and sulkily turned on the TV with a flick of the remote. "It's not _my_ fault she got in the way."

Hamilton happened to be passing by the living room with a can of Pringles in one hand, and took one look at Dan. "Not cool, man," he said, shaking his head. "Not cool." Then he walked off.

Ian marched over to the television and stood in front of it so Dan would be looking at him. He ignored the boy's protests of "Hey, out of the way, you TV-blocking Squidward! Can't you _see_ I'm watching SpongeBob here?" Ian exchanged a look of disbelief with Amy and the girl just shrugged. The British boy turned back to Dan with a look that told the younger that he was going to say something serious here, so he better listen up.

"Daniel, I—"

" _What?"_

Unfortunately, listening to all things serious wasn't exactly Dan's forte.

Ian bristled. "It would actually be polite to let me finish."

"It would actually be polite to let me finish."

Twitch. Twitch. Ian was twitching at the horrid imitation, and Dan grinned at how awesome he was in doing these kinds of things. Glad to know he wasn't getting old. Dan had mimicked Ian's voice with a little more than overdone British accent. Seeing Ian's face contort so much like that made a deep satisfaction rise up from Dan's stomach. Ah. 'You want _serious_ , eh, snake boy? Then you get _serious_.' One of the perks of having Cobras in the mansion was that Dan actually had some _serious_ fun around here. Amy was getting boring to be around with these days, really.

Ian clenched his fists and seethed out with gritted teeth. "Honestly, if you just listen first—"

"Honestly, if you just listen first!"

"Daniel, please, you're being very immature."

"Daniel, please, you're being very awesome."

"Stop it."

"Stop it."

"I _mean_ it."

"I mean it."

"Seriously, it's getting on my—!"

"Seriously, it's getting on my—"

But Dan stopped when Ian suddenly brandished a dart gun from his sleeve and pointed it threateningly at Dan, who now stared at the shiny little point aimed directly at him.

"If you don't stop this nonsense," whispered the Lucian in his deadliest voice, dropping from its usual tenor to the surprising baritone that even made Amy turn her head at him, "I am personally going to kill you and make sure your body is unfound while you are feasted upon by rats and flies."

Dan flinched, awkwardly moving his head a little backwards so that his face wouldn't be so near to that tiny little point almost touching his nose. He shuddered. That _would_ be horrible, being sentenced to death because of grease-filled balloons and all. He preferred having a more… _heroic_ death, you know? Like maybe after having dramatically saved the world with a cape billowing out from behind him. At least let him do his ninja pose before he died.

"Alright, alright, the two of you, stop it." Amy stepped in between the two of them, pushing Ian away from her brother while she chuckled nervously at how close the Kabra was at exploding right now. From his tense muscles, even Amy could tell that Ian was dead _serious_ about the threat he had just made. Amy sighed, and turned to Dan. She made a mental note to lecture him about seriousness later.

"Just do what Ian tells you and he wouldn't bother you anymore. All he wants is that you apologize to Natalie. Okay?"

"Apologize to that annoying, bratty little _gnat?_ " Dan huffed, refusing to get his pride wounded. "Not in a million years."

Ian stepped forward, going for the kill. But Amy stopped him, calmly told him she got this situation, and heaved in a breath, forcing herself to even say these words aloud. She turned to Dan, who had his eyebrow arched and arms crossed, trying to look sceptical instead of curious of what his sister was about to say here now.

And then _that's_ when she went for the bait.

"Not even if you do it for a GSX2?"

* * *

He inwardly smirked at the memory. Ah, his sister just knew his weakness, didn't she? But suddenly, Dan snapped out of his trance as Nellie's voice interrupted through his little meditation.

"I can't believe I'm really participating in this," said Nellie as she finished drawing a, quote-unquote, a 'magic circle' on the wooden floor with a chalk. She sat back to admire her handiwork. It was a circle with a seven-pointed star drawn inside it, its points touching the circumference of the circle. She did pretty well on following the right dimensions and the correct angles, all of which came from the very detailed account on Atticus' book. _The Ancient Folktales of Norse Mythology_ had nothing but seriously infected that young Rosenbloom's skull with magic fairy dust. And now she, Dan, and Phoenix were forced to cooperate with this crazy ancient spell of his to talk to a spirit.

Nellie thought that, _fine_ , that mirror was one heck of a supernatural mirror. Atticus had proved that when, just a little earlier, he allowed her to touch the mirror for one second, and, in that split second, she thought her head had also just split in two. The unwanted memories that suddenly arose, all tragic and crazy sad, had overflowed in her mind that she couldn't literally take it. It was a horrible experience that she had all too happily agreed that she was never to touch that mirror again for the rest of her life, period.

But even as she was finally convinced of the legitimacy of that mirror's curse and the legend of the Seven Sisters, she still thought that attempting to call upon spirits was going a _little_ overboard. Okay, sure, the Mystery Syndrome's real, primary root is the golden mirror that neither of them all ever had the desire to touch, but even Nellie cannot just go and all too happily agree on calling upon a spirit. The only real reason she agreed to do this was because Atticus was a pretty persistent young fella.

"Yeah, me too," agreed Phoenix, shaking his head as he started putting candles onto the points of the newly-drawn star. "This is nuts."

"I don't know what suddenly happened to Att," Dan added, who was sitting on a dusty rocking chair with his hands nonchalantly put behind his head. "I just want to get this over with."

"Yes, and we wouldn't get over with this if you don't actually _help_ in setting up this crazy magic circle thingy," Nellie pointed out, walking over to him with hands onto her hips. "Get the matches downstairs. We don't have anything here to light these candles up."

Dan's initial response was a groan. "Aw, why me?"

"Because you're the only one who's not doing anything. Phoenix and I are hard at work here, mister. Now march."

Dan sighed, and got up from his rocking chair. He climbed downstairs the attic, walked some more steps down toward the kitchen to search for the required matches. After a few fumbling and shuffling, he finally found the matchbox, with a few good matches left inside. He casually tossed it in the air and caught it in his hand. It would be enough.

He took his time walking back upstairs and through the hallway. As he did, he threw a few ninja punches here and there to entertain himself, dancing in the air as if he was in a real, actual battlefront with a light sabre of his own. He threw a few punch lines here and there as he did his rather clumsy ninja moves (but despite anyone else's opinions, he was still pretty convinced that his moves were _not_ clumsy, that in fact they were actually cool.) He was saying, "Take that, you evil villain!" or "You are no match for Dan the Awesome Ninja! _Hyaaa!_ " and he thrust his imaginary sword forward with a dramatic pose. But as dramatic as it was, he accidentally released the puny little matchbox from his hand and it skidded across the floor, and there it went into a slightly-opened room at the end of the hall.

Oh man, that was embarrassing. Dan warily looked left and right, making sure he was all alone. If anyone had seen him do that, they would _really_ call his ninja moves as clumsy.

Relieved that he was all alone, (phew,) he ran over to the slightly-opened room as quickly as he could and switched on the lights. The floor was dusty—it looked like it hadn't been touched for years. It probably was. He searched and searched and searched the open floor, but his thrown matchbox wasn't there. Great. Nellie was going to kill him if he didn't come back up there in the attic _quick_ ; he started to regret even doing those ninja moves because now it caused him nothing but trouble. It looks like he was left with no choice but to search under the bed. It's not like he didn't like his shirt getting dusty when he crouched down onto the floor, but this was his only good SpongeBob t-shirt left. Nevertheless, he still bent over, hunkering down so he could take a look-see on the unders of the bed, but…sigh.

Nope. No sign of it there. Dan straightened himself up from the floor and grouchily scratched his head. How come a matchbox could hide so expertly that even Dan couldn't find it anywhere? Dan was practically the finest sensei when it came to playing hide-and-seek. He scanned the room, which was empty of all appliances or anything of the sort—there was just the bed, an empty wardrobe, and the small wooden drawer by the side of the bed.

He decided to search under the said drawer, doing the same crouch as he did when he had looked under the bed. And as inserted his head under the said drawer and took a glance, whoa—there it is! His matchbox, finally. Dan swiped his hand over it and easily took it, but getting his head out from under the drawer wasn't as easy a job. He had hit his head against the underside of the drawer and he released an 'Ow!' when something fell onto his head with a loud _thunk_.

He abruptly stood up, reeling from his expedition from under the said drawer as he scratched the sore spot onto this head. But it was a good thing he had his matchbox now, right? He was just about to leave the room, now that he had his job here done and over with, but when he took one final glance at the room, he felt himself stiffen as he let his mind go off to…

Somewhere else.

* * *

The GameStationX2 offer was simply irresistible. So, in the end, Dan had agreed to apologize.

But as he stopped walking and froze in front of a pink-coloured store in the mall, he _immediately_ regretted it.

"Hello, hello, welcome, sir!" Dan hadn't even taken one single step inside the store but the saleswoman had already assumed he was going to. So she grabbed him by the arm and dragged him across the pink-tiled floor despite his many protests, and eventually the two of them stood at the centre of the pink room which was draped over with pink decorations. "Good afternoon!" said the saleswoman with a nametag that read _Yvette_. "It's a warm day to be here in the mall, don't you think? What brings you to our humble little store?"

 _You_ dragged _me here, lady_ , Dan wanted to shout. But he didn't want to offend the saleswoman's feelings—her smile was so strained it looked like she just might crack, and it must have been so boring for her to sit around here and wait for customers all day long. Well, come to think of it, was he the only customer here? Huh. Then that explains why this Yvette dudette seemed a little _too_ desperate when she had almost dragged him across the room.

"Well?" Yvette seemed to have started losing hope that her only customer was actually going to buy something. "Is there something here that tickles your fancy?"

Dan took his time to survey the room. There were necklaces, bracelets, hair clips, all sorts of pink and gold and silver accessories that he didn't even know _what_ they were, and fancy, overdone dresses that hung by hangers in each aisle. Yuck. It was so girly in this store that he was _so_ going to puke, right then and there. And it was no wonder no one ever came in here—when Dan's eyes landed on a price tag, he thought he just heard his wallet say 'Ouch'.

"What are you looking for, sir?" said Yvette, who followed him from behind like a puppy, desperate to get a word out of her only customer, not wanting to lose him. "Could you tell me in particular? A birthday gift? Or perhaps a present for a girlfriend?"

Dan released a brutal gag as a cough erupted from his stomach, most probably from disgust. No, scratch that, it's _definitely_ from disgust. He pounded his chest with a fist, desperately trying to stop his choking as the saleslady profusely tried to apologize and immediately hurried to get him a bottle of water and made him drink it. All the while, Dan was practically screaming and/or puking.

 _Girlfriend? Natalie, a_ girlfriend?! _Now why would this crazy lady think of THAT? YUCK! I choose the GRAVE! Dying would be MERCY!_

His coughs eventually subsided as he gulped down the water, completely ignoring the worried look of Yvette as she watched him finally calm down. Dan swiped the back of his hand to his wet lips as he held out the bottle of water to Yvette, thanking her for her help. Yvette immediately started firing questions.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, sir, did I say something offensive? Would you like to tell me first exactly what you need, so I may just be the one to search it for you? So you could just sit here and I'll do all the browsing? It would definitely save you the work and the time."

Unbelievable. This Yvette was really _desperate_. "Nah, don't worry, I got it." Dan gave her a nonchalant wave, shoving his other hand in his pocket as he started walking through the jewellery aisle, examining each and every accessory that was laid out beautifully in elegant arrangements. The saleslady followed from behind, saying things that were so incredibly boring that he chose to just shut up and not listen. He just focused himself on the browsing instead.

First there were the earrings—each and every one of them are exaggeratedly big and laden with different sorts of gems that Dan had to wonder why anyone would even _want_ to wear them in the first place. They looked so heavy they might just rip off an earhole; he wondered why girls even wanted to have this extra weight in their ears, wouldn't that be uncomfortable?

Second was the aisle of hats. There were hats made of imported abaca leaves, and some were made of fancy leather that one could use for like absolutely _nothing_ —the leather was so heavy on the head that practically NO ONE would want to wear it! The hats were vividly coloured and designed, with fancy laces tracing the rims and feathers and whatnot. One of them was so ridiculously full of feathers that whoever wore it would look like a peacock. He had cackled rather loudly at the thought of Natalie squawking around like a peacock (what with her fancy posture and all her other schmancies) with those feathers sitting right on her head, but then Yvette's worried tone reminded him that there was a spectator. So he stopped laughing and cleared his throat as he turned to the right. Okay. That had probably looked creepy.

Third, the necklace aisle. The description of these thingamajigs is the same—exaggerated and heavily decorated by dramatic series of sparklers. He thought that these things came just right out of a fashion magazine. Unlike what he did to the first and second aisle, this time he actually turned serious at trying to find the perfect jewellery. Although he didn't really know which one of these Natalie would like, and besides he had no fashion sense in the first place, he still thought that some of the jewels looked pretty good. He even went so far as to pick up one necklace which was laden with gold-rimmed rubies cascading down in a spectacular chain of vivid red gemstones that even _he_ thought would be breath-taking if Natalie wore it—if anyone _else_ wore it. Also, red seemed to be the perfect Lucian colour for her.

"Oh, good! So that necklace it is!" the saleslady had all too enthusiastically clapped her hands when Dan had told her this was it. They both went to the counter and Yvette told him, "That would be five hundred dollars."

Dan was silent for a second. Or two.

"You could buy a horse for that."

Yvette looked confused at the sudden inclusion of the smelly quadruped mammal in the conversation. "What?"

"Uh, I was just thinking, can I just browse again for a minute?"

Because, _really? Five hundred dollars?!_ What in the name of Gideon! Did that money even _exist?_ Yeah well, he was rich and all, but he'd lived all his life with barely even a dollar a week to survive school (that was how Beatrice made the impression of a selfish mothball-smelling hag in front of everyone). But today he had learned his lesson. When he and the saleslady went back to the jewellery aisles, Dan made sure to look at the price tags first.

The aisle of rings. This time he actually started paying attention to what he had to pay attention to—the Price Tags of Death. But because of doing that, each and every single little thing was immediately crossed out—no, no, _no_ way was he going to buy anything that cost $239.75, or $124.15, or even a $99.99. (Seriously, he couldn't understand why they had to be so shy of that extra point-oh-one cent. Idiots.) Ditto the headband aisle, and the hair clip aisle, and the anklet aisle, and the bracelet aisle. Ugh. He had scoured all the ends of the jewellery aisles and nothing caught up to Dan's (cheap) practical standards, and, worst of all, he was getting tired. Seriously, how long has he been walking around in circles over here now? Is this why girls were so time-consuming whenever they go to one— _one_ —fuh-reaking store?

This was a total waste of time. Why in the world was he even here in the first place? He was about to give up, surrender to the hands of exhaustion that had so cruelly grabbed him by the throat. He was just about to leave the he-didn't-care-what-kind-of-jewellery-it-was aisle when…

He stopped walking. He picked up the bracelet that had caught his eye, never minding the price. In no time, he decided this was it, all other thoughts steering clear of the only one that had gripped his mind: this was the bracelet for Natalie. It was the one that would just fit her personality, her looks, and everything else. He knew that this was just the right, most beautiful accessory that would perfectly compliment everything that was her.

"I think I'll take this."

It was _perfect_.

(And cheap, as an added bonus.)

* * *

Dan gulped. That day. That day, it happened in this very room.

Because the room he was currently standing on was _Natalie's_ room.

And he had to take a step back at the frightening coincidences. When he took a look at the thing that had hit him on the head, it was the same jewellery box that he gave her that day. He bent down to open the lid, and found a piece of tiny paper in it, letters written in Natalie's handwriting.

_Today is June 24_ _th_ _. The day Dan did the sweetest thing he'd ever done his whole life._

* * *

He heaved a breath, steeled his nerves, and spilled his guts.

_Knock, knock._

"Go away."

He sighed, having expected this kind of reaction. She hadn't gone out of her room, for, like, _ages_ , well only actually eight days, but was it really that big of a deal that she had to mourn for her stupid dress? Sure, he was the one who greased it in the first place, ahem, _accidentally_ greased it in the first place, but she really didn't have to go so far as to skulk in her room like an old crone.

" _Seriously?_ " Dan pressed his ear against Natalie's door. "I thought you were going to say 'Who's there'."

But the British girl was persistent in not letting anyone else get her out of her room. Not ever. And Dan heard that in her next words.

"I am personally going to kill you and feed you to the crocodiles and laugh while you beg for your petty little life, _Daniel_ , if you don't. Go. _Away_."

He sighed. Well, that's a Cobra for you.

"Alright, alright, I know you don't want me here." He almost laughed at the way she'd sounded so much like her older Cobra brother; but this time, he restrained that laugh, trampling it down his gut until it was nothing but a figment of his imagination. He took to heart Ian's words—to take matters with a serious face, for once. So he tried again, cleared his throat, and forced himself to actually sound sincere. "But look, I'm not here to fight. I just came to tell you it's time for lunch." It was a lie. It was barely even ten am. "There's that fancy food you Brits like so much downstairs—it has that fancy white sauce…what's it called? Viernes? Yeah, something like that."

"It's _béarnaise_ , you stupid twit. Viernes is Spanish for Friday." Her voice was as snappy and snippy and smarty-pants as ever. "Now go away."

Once again, Dan released a loud, audible sigh. He realized she wasn't going to open her door no matter what he tried to say. Ian was right—Natalie was _impossible_ to coax out of her room, and if her own brother didn't even stand a chance, what else was left for Dan? He had tried this reason to talk to Ian and Amy, but both of them still believed that an apology would be the one to cure this moping around that Natalie was so fond of doing these days. So he still had to try.

"Okay then," he said in a loud voice, wanting Natalie from the other side of the door to hear him perfectly loud and clear. "I guess I'm just gonna go and play videogames while you are bored to _death_ in there!" He purposefully made his footsteps loud enough for her to hear as he traipsed down the hall until he stopped at a distance. He wanted to make Natalie believe that he really _had_ gone away. Then he removed his shoes, gently set them on the ground, and silently tip-toed back down the hall to Natalie's door, waiting for her to open it.

But when she did, presumably to go down and get her lunch, and saw Dan's grinning face, she lost all hold on patience.

"You?! UGH!"

She attempted to immediately shut the door on his face, utterly mortified. But Dan had his foot blocking the door from locking herself in again, like the slick and cunning ninja he was.

There was a pause in the air.

Then Dan started jumping up and down like a pathetic headless chicken, holding his throbbing, shoeless foot and blowing it with puffs of air as if that could ease the sudden pain. He immediately regretted even sticking his foot there in the first place. When Natalie had banged that door, she'd banged the door _hard_. His foot was now practically begging for the ninja lords' mercy.

"Ow ow ow ow ow ow ow!" he was screaming. Then he looked accusingly at Natalie. "What _is_ the big idea?!"

Natalie was stark raving mad. "Do you _really_ want me to answer that?"

"Uh, yeah, you moron, I think that's why people ask questions in the first place!"

"Well then, let me tell you, you _idiot_ ," Natalie had banged her door open wide, so now Dan could see a full glimpse of her for the first time in days. "You _destroyed_ my most expensive dress with grease beyond repair. _Beyond repair!_ I perfectly understand if you have no idea what you have just destroyed, for I am a hundred per cent sure that those disgusting little head lice of yours had already extracted the brain out of your skull, so I am going to so helpfully point this out for you—you and your savage prank had destroyed the most valuable remembrance I have of my mother." Her voice cracked at the mention of that same woman whom she loved but had disowned her, and Dan saw her struggling with the conflicting emotions that had just risen out of her—was she to be angry at her mother, or was she to just forget all the bad memories and stick onto the good ones, love her mum like she had so normally done before?

As Natalie stood there, fists clenched and body stiff, Dan could see…what? Tears on her eyes?

She turned around in her heel and crossed her arms. Her head slowly bowed down to face the ground as she said, in the quietest voice he had ever heard from her, "I hope you are satisfied with what you just destroyed."

Dan was sent in shocked silence, honestly not knowing what else to say. He didn't know she was still _this_ attached to her mother—ahem, to _that woman_. He didn't even know why she still hadn't let go of Isabel, that snake, even after all she'd done. Isabel just had to be the one person in the world not fit to earn the title of a mother—she had shot Natalie in the foot with a real live actual _gun_ , for crying out loud. He just didn't understand why Natalie had to care so much about the Most Evil Villain in the World.

And what did people actually say in this kind of situation? The silence that had befallen upon them was so painfully awkward that he felt like he just _had_ to say something, and with Natalie's faint sniffling in the background which she tried so hard to smother away, Dan felt like he had to be the one who had to say something. But what? He felt like he had to reach out and console her, tell her everything will be alright, pat her on the shoulder or something, but ew. He'd pass. Dan was the awesome type of person who didn't really do sappy drama.

So he just said the words that he knew Dan Cahill would say in a situation like this.

"Nat. I didn't come here to get lashed at." He said this, stepping forward—then suddenly paused. "Huh. Funny that rhymes."

"If you want me to listen to whatever _garbage_ you are about to say," Natalie snapped, that normal haughtiness that he hadn't even realized he'd missed hearing seeping back into her tone, "you would have to address me properly, _Daniel_."

An annoyed vein throbbed in Dan's forehead.

"Okay, alright— _Natalie_ , I didn't come here to get lashed at." He rolled his eyes, and then produced a small pink box from his pocket, and awkwardly held it out to her. "I came to, you know, maybe-sorta-kinda give you this."

Natalie's eyes landed onto the small, flower-engraved box that was sitting right at Dan's hand, her expression that full of shock, clearly not expecting the events to turn out like this. But as the gears in her mind actually began to gain power and started turning rapidly—

She looked up at him with a knowing smirk. "Did Ian tell you to bribe me so I would forgive you?"

Dan's mouth gaped.

_Busted._

"Wha—no, no, no!" He shook his hands in front of him all too exaggeratedly. "That's not the case! _Forgive_ me? As if I'd ask for forgiveness from a Cobra in the first place! Ha! You must be OUT of your mind!" He laughed so hard that he had to slap his knee like he really meant it. Natalie raised an eyebrow; he knew that she totally saw right through him, and it made him feel like a pathetic klutz for lying in front of a _Lucian_. "No, no, you got it all _wrong_ , I didn't come here to say sorry! Me? Sorry for my pranks? Pfft. Like where did _that_ even come from? _Puh-leez!_ "

Natalie crossed her arms over her chest, that superior look plastered all over her face like a flag of glory. "That confirms it. You want an apology."

Argh. No point in arguing. So he just gave up and held the box out to her. "Right, right, sorry, okay? I didn't know that that dress meant so much for you. Yeah, I know I was the reason why your dress was destroyed and all, and I'm sorry. Really sorry 'bout that. I promise that I'm not going to do it again. Maybe. Ugh, I hate this sappy drama. Just take the stupid box of pink abomination already."

The girl let herself smile as she took the box from Dan's hand. It had been a while since she'd gone shopping for fancy jewellery considering she didn't have that much money as she had in the past, so she was very happy that she actually had something new to wear, even if it came from Dan. Her eyes lovingly rested on the jewellery box first, before focusing her grateful eyes back to Dan, sincere and unsnappish for once.

"Apology accepted."

He was shocked for a moment, frozen in the middle of him scratching the back of his neck. Then he stared at her, not believing his ears.

"What?"

"Are you deaf, you blithering fool? I said I forgive you."

Dan gulped. Once again he found it unsure of what proper words to speak. How was someone to react in this kind of situation? Ugh, he never thought he'd admit this, but he regretted not watching those drama movies Amy had so annoyingly insisted him to watch with her. If he did, then he'd know just what to say.

But once again, he just let his mouth say what Dan Cahill would want to say.

"Well, before we get all mushy-mushy and corny and stuff," he waved his fingers over at the direction of the small pink box in her hand, "open the thing first."

Natalie did so, all too happily. But when she lifted the lid, and saw what was inside…

" _Is this supposed to be an insult?!"_ She held out the cheap-looking silver bracelet (uh, no, it wasn't silver, per se, it's actually just stainless steel) with a small, heart-shaped locker dangling from it, and thrust the thin thing over to his face. To tell the truth, she _was_ seriously insulted. The way how simple it was, how undecorated and just plain, it hurt her pride. Natalie Kabra didn't wear peasant accessories like this, she just _didn't_. But now that Dan had bought her something so dull like this, so _cheap_ , she was just reminded of what she was supposed to be now—a poor, penniless peasant sitting in the grass roots of society who didn't deserve the pearls and the diamonds and the gold and rubies she had been so accustomed to wearing all her life.

"What? You don't like it?" Dan said, looking a little hurt that his gift was unappreciated, but trying to smother it over with an incredulous face. No, no, he was NOT hurt that Natalie didn't like it, he was _happy_ that she was insulted. At least, that's what he'd been telling himself. There was no reason for him to be hurt, right? _Right?_ Right.

"No, I don't like it!" she was hollering. "It looks cheap! And is this stainless steel? You could've at least gotten me authentic silver!"

Well, he _expected_ this reaction from her, but out of all those exaggerated and overpriced jewelleries back at the store, this was the only one that he really found perfect for Natalie. The reason he bought it was not because it was the cheapest of the bunch (well, partly) but because its simplicity _balanced_ Natalie's sophisticated character. He liked the necklace. Didn't she?

"Cheap?!" he fired back, outrageous. "That cost me like thirty-nine cents, you cranky ungrateful gnat! And that is _not_ stainless steel! That's stainless-steel-with-a-smidge-of-silver kind of steel! And I got that from a jewellery store, to tell you!" he added, proudly.

Natalie didn't know if she had to be impressed by that. "Thirty-nine cents? Now I know you are just making that up! This couldn't have been worth more than one bleeding _cent!_ " she screamed. _"Daniel!_ "

Dan saw it coming. He ducked, just in time to see the pink jewellery box hit the wall where Dan's head previously was. Natalie was angry that she missed the bull's-eye, so she screamed, kind-of-sort-of as a battle cry, a warning for Dan to get up, like, _right now_ , or else he'd die. And then he ran, Natalie running after him, shouting death threats and all those fancy-schmancy British insult words that he didn't have the brainpower at the moment to comprehend—because right now, he was having too much fun, something he hadn't felt for ages (well, only eight days, but really), and he laughed, because his mind was too delighted of thinking of one fact and one fact only:

The mighty ninja was the only one whohad successfully gotten her out of her room.

* * *

Dan smiled at the flashback. He cradled the small, delicate jewellery box on his hand and, with his other free one, he fished out the one thing he had been keeping guilty of these days—

The heart-shaped locker bracelet with the letters NK in it.

Sure, he had stolen it from Cobra the other day, and he was perfectly aware that he ought to return what wasn't his, but he just…didn't want to return it. Maybe it was the fact that he was still a little overwhelmed that Natalie had actually _not_ thrown the bracelet away, even if she thought that it was cheap, even if she said she didn't like it—she actually kept it, she actually _wore_ it, that day when the Cahills came to the Kabra mansion to have a Halloween party. And the fact that Ian had actually kept that little bracelet in the first place made Dan feel so…touched. Because Ian wouldn't even keep it with him in the first place if he didn't think that it was something that Natalie had valued. And the thought of Natalie actually _valuing_ something that _he_ of all people gave her…

Well, he wasn't really sure on how he felt about that.

Dan had felt that he had the right to keep this bracelet; that is, for the time being. It was a good thing that Ian didn't even suspect something missing from his luggage, but Dan agreed with himself that on the first sign of suspicion that would rise from Ian, he would immediately return him this bracelet. It was, after all, his sister's possession.

It was funny how now Dan valued Natalie's possessions, when, back in the days, he _enjoyed_ burning every single one of hers, her Prada and each and every one of her disgusting girly accessories. He smiled at the thought. Those pranking wars were the _best_. Those were the same days when he'd demand videogame rematches because she _clearly_ cheated, those same days when she'd annoy him with that ugly British voice of hers that she called 'sophisticated', the days when she called him Daniel and he called her Nat, and that one day when they both agreed on an alliance to initiate a Cahill version of World War III against their older siblings and other cousins. Now, _that_ particular one had been so much fun. _All_ those days were so much fun. Those were the days that his life was filled with happiness that he'd taken for granted, happiness that he never knew even existed.

So he couldn't believe it. He just _couldn't_. He didn't know how it even happened, but it just…did.

Those days were all suddenly gone.

When he realized what he had just been thinking, he laughed at himself, releasing the grip he had been so tightly forcing on his knee, the jewellery box still in his hand. He found it as such a farce. All those days, he'd been so annoyed at her that he just wanted her gone; but now that she was, he found himself wanting for her to actually _be_ here.

 _Come to think of it_ , he said to himself, _she still keeps on annoying me_ even _if she's gone._ And he knew that she knew that he _hated_ mushy-mushy moments, but, right now, _she_ was making him feel all so mushy even if she's not here. Ugh. This is all her fault. _This is all her fault._ He grouchily wiped at the tears that had stubbornly gotten out of his eyes, ugh, it was _her_ fault he was crying now. Why did she have to go? Why did she have to keep on being so annoying? Why did she have to make him a pathetic old mush? Why did she have to _leave?_ They still haven't had enough fun yet, he still had a million pranks planned out for her, and they _still_ haven't planned out World War IV! And she was so good on forming strategies too—if only she knew that she'd make an awesome sidekick!

It was so totally unfair that she had to leave him alone to all the planning of their prank wars now. It was unfair that all she had to do was sit back and watch the entire show while he worked out on the war details all alone. It was unfair that she didn't have to attend any more of their Cahill reunions, and it was unfair that she wasn't there to be annoyed at, it was unfair that she isn't there anymore to play pranks on. She was being so unfair. All of it was just so totally _unfair_.

Unfair, unfair, _unfair!_

He let himself fall to the floor, his knees not able to anymore stand it anymore. He held the jewellery box close to him as if it was the smidgeon of life left in him that he himself would die if he let it go. He was perfectly aware of how mushy he was acting, and he blamed all of it on her. He was full on crying now, all the while screaming at the one person who would never be able to hear it anyway. The gall of that woman—she _dared_ just leave like that and make him feel like… _this_ at the same time? Ugh! How the hell _dare_ she! She's just—

— _so_ —

—annoying!

_This is all your fault, blast it, Natalie!_


	11. The Chains of Agony

After much panicking during their crazy little drive, Jake, Ned, and Atticus had finally arrived in Grace's mansion.

The three boys were running down the hall, skittering on the floor with their feet barely touching the ground. Atticus had the lead, taking his steps up the stairs with haste as Jake and Ned just blindly followed after him. They were going to the attic, the place where Atticus had set for them to do this crazy Norse magic spell of his. Jake found it a little weird that he, the older brother, was following from _behind_ his younger brother. It was odd to think that it was Atticus who had set this all up, that it was Atticus who took responsibility, that it was Atticus who actually took the lead—and he was practically the youngest person in the Cahill house.

Jake exchanged a glance with Ned. Ned just shrugged, a gesture enough for the Rosenbloom to know that they were on the same page here: they were not used to following orders from a child years younger than them.

But he guessed it was just right. As Jake watched Atticus run forward with nothing but firm determination in each of his stride, Jake felt amazement flutter from inside his stomach.

Because his little brother actually _cared_ for Ian Kabra.

It sent him even just a slash of guilt. But that feeling was overcome by how glad he was for his brother. Jake smiled at himself as he kept his eyes glued to the other Rosenbloom in the lead. Atticus was growing up, and he was quickly maturing into a young man. Well, sure, he didn't know half of the details of what was practically happening here, but the thing was, Atticus was young enough to believe even in the most orthodox of things, but he was also mature and intelligent enough to execute the plans needed to fulfil it. A perfect combination that reminded him of Astrid. She was a rose in bloom when she died, and Jake had grieved for her death, even if she was just a stepmother. Jake knew that Atticus would be a rose in bloom, too, when time comes, just like Astrid.

Now that thought made him want to laugh. The description 'a rose in bloom' was so feminine, but it perfectly fit Atticus' name—A. Rosenbloom. He had already kidded him about it some time in the past, and Atticus had been a tad irritated by it. Wait till he told him that again.

But, all too suddenly, Atticus seemed to crash into an invisible wall. Jake and Ned were left with no choice but to stop their feet from running and had almost crashed into each other because of the sudden stop. Jake looked at his brother.

"Hey, what's the hold up?" he demanded. "We almost fell flat on our faces, you know!"

But Atticus was looking at Dan, who had just gotten out of a room. Dan's eyes widened as he acknowledged the newcomers. He looked in a rumpled mess, his dirty-blond hair was dishevelled, and the edges of his eyes had the tiniest hint of red. His eyelashes stuck to each other like they had been wetted with…tears?

"Dan...?" Jake didn't know what else to say. The sight was too much of a shock, and the realization that Dan might have just _cried..._ well, it was unheard of.

But the boy only ruffled his hair as he pushed his hand through it, trying to look nonchalant as he leaned back on the wall with a cool look in his face. "What's up, you guys?" Dan seemed to be struggling to get his words out straight. "You're here already?"

"Uh, yeah, I…think so?" Atticus shrugged. Then he pointed at the room behind him. "What were you doing in there?"

"I just got some matches." Dan shook the matchbox in his hand in front of Atticus' face playfully. Then he tossed it in the air and coolly let it land back onto his waiting hand. "Nellie said we need to light the candles."

"Yeah, but…" Atticus took a worried step forward to his best friend. "But are you—are you alri—"

"Ah, never been better," Dan cut off, already walking forward as he gestured the three of them to follow him to the attic. Then the four boys started walking, Dan now on the lead. The happy-go-lucky Cahill flexed his arms and relaxed them on top of his head. Jake arched an eyebrow at this. Was it only him, or did he notice Dan trying to avoid their eyes?

But that thought was whisked away when Dan suddenly changed the topic, reverting to the more serious one here.

"Where's Amy, by the way?" He stopped walking, looking back to check if he was right. When he only saw Jake, Ned, and Atticus, he returned his gaze back down at the younger Rosenbloom. "I thought we need seven people to get this spell right. We only have Nellie and Phoenix up in the attic, and then me, and then you, and then Ned and Jake. If my fingers tell me right, we only have six. We need one more man here."

Jake felt a little weird with Dan calling Amy 'man'.

Atticus looked down at his feet guiltily as he answered his question for all of them. "I didn't want Amy to come."

"Huh?" Dan looked incredulous. "Why?"

This time it was Jake who answered, surprising both himself and the rest of them. "We have to have one of us actually watching over Ian."

That response earned a silence from the air. He was perfectly aware of how Dan and Atticus were staring at him right now as if he had just announced that his name was Jane from now on. Well, they _did_ know how his relationship was with Ian, and it was most certainly _not_ pretty. So hearing him actually say those words in such a sincere manner was really…

But Ned interrupted the silence with a clap in the air as he attempted to leave, all too happily.

"Oh, too bad, so this spell's not gonna work with only six people? Bummer. Well, I guess I better get goi—"

Jake had grabbed onto the back of the Ekaterina's collar just as he was about to escape. "Not so fast, Starling."

Ned visibly slumped, now realizing that his chances of escape are very, very near to zero now. He wasn't very enthusiastic with the idea of wasting time playing with magic spells. Well, sure, that mirror was cursed, and he himself had found a connection from mythology to this crazy disease they call the 'Mystery Syndrome', but doing _magic spells?_ No, that pushing it too far. He was an _Ekaterina_. What would Sinead do to him if she ever knew? He was _Techno_ , master of computers, for crying out loud! His reputation was going to be destroyed if anyone found out about him participating in _this_.

"Oh, yeah?" Ned threatened, but he found his voice coming out as helpless. There was no getting himself out of it from the looks of that young guy Atticus and this huge fella holding onto the back of his collar. "What's in it for me, Rosenbloom?"

Jake's answer was serious. "There's nothing in it for you, or for me. We're doing this for Ian." Jake then turned to the other two younger fellows, who immediately stood bolt upright as they sensed instructions coming out of him. Jake did exactly that. "You guys go to the attic and set up that magic circle you've been telling me all about, Att. And did you say we need one more man?" This time, Jake turned to Ned, his hands now placed onto the Starling's shoulders so that he was looking at him directly into the eye.

"Ned, tell me." Ned gulped at the Rosenbloom's dead serious tone of voice. Jake looked like he was about to say something grave, something downright critical, something that just determined the fine line between life and death. This is it. The moment of truth. Jake released a scene-intensifying breath.

"You're from Team Apollo, right?"

Ned blinked, trying to make sure if he heard him right.

_Huh?_

* * *

Ten minutes later, up in the attic, Dan's eyes all but popped out of their sockets.

"Uncle Fiske?! _Seriously?_ " He all but ripped his hair from his head as he watched his old great uncle make his way in the attic, who was being extra-careful not to hit his head against the low ceiling. The boy just gaped at him as the elder enter the small room. "What are you _doing_ here? Don't tell me you're _seriously_ going to go with this?!"

"Yes," Fiske agreed with a smile, "I am to participate, because this actually sounds like—" But Fiske was stopped when he suddenly hit his head against the diagonal wooden post because of trying to avoid the low ceiling so much. Dan, Atticus, Nellie, and Phoenix burst out laughing as Jake and Ned deliberately coughed to smother their bubbling giggles. Fiske stepped forward to them, stooping low to avoid the post, and continued with what he was saying.

"Yes, I am to participate; this actually sounds like fun," he said, rubbing the sore spot in his head as he gave a deathly sideways glance at the cursed post. Jake and Ned followed from behind the elder. "And besides, spending time with my nieces and nephews would be my only way to make up for the delay of the prizes of Team Apollo." Then, Fiske kneeled down on the wooden floor, curiously examining Nellie's impression of a 'magic circle' on the ground. His eyes lighted with interest at the drawing.

As he was busy, the gang of six immediately huddled at a far corner to discuss what just happened, their voices low enough not to be heard at earshot. Nellie immediately asked the question that all of them had been thinking all this time.

"Now that was pretty fast." She shot a look to Ned and Jake. "How did you convince him?" Atticus, Dan, and Phoenix nodded fiercely along the question.

Jake had a ready answer, his voice a little over-rehearsed. "I told him we're just going to experiment and have fun. I don't want to explain him the whole thing—that old legend stuff would only make discussions longer, and I don't want the job of pouring out all too heavily-detailed stories. And besides, we wouldn't want to impose. Right?"

Ned nodded as he indicated to Jake. "This guy here told me to do the talking. I made your Uncle Fiske feel guilty since he delayed my Team Apollo's prizes from yesterday's game—we won, remember?—and now Fiske thinks that the only way he could make up for the delay is to spend a little time with us doing this 'magic' experiment." He made air quotes gestures as he said the magic word. "That's actually the best strategy we could use if we don't want to explain to him everything; total waste of time. Although I'm pretty sure I looked pretty pathetic begging your dear uncle to play around with us." Ned shook his head, finding this as such an embarrassment. Whatever this magic spell was, it was destroying his computer-genius façade.

Dan scratched his head. "So now he thinks that we're only playing around in here?"

"Playing around? Ugh." The eleven-year-old Atticus sounded disgusted at the term, throwing his arms exasperatedly in the air. "I'm too _old_ for playing around. I feel like I'm being too undertreated here."

Come to think of it, he almost _wanted_ their Great Uncle Fiske to think they're actually doing a kick butt spell...

"You _are_ undertreated," Jake pointed out to him with a hiss. "You have no choice. You are a child, and children are supposed to be sucking their thumbs right now to sleep this time of the night, not go around messing with ancient Norse magic spells to talk to dead spirits. If that's even supposed to make any sense. We're having my and Ned's dignity destroyed here, Att, because of this craziness. You're welcome."

Atticus reddened. He realized that he hadn't even said 'thank you' for all their efforts in helping him get this magic spell through, and he was guilty for that. "Well…" he said, scratching the back of his neck a little awkwardly, "well thank you. All of you. For, you know. Understanding."

Nellie smiled kindly, and patted the young one on the back. "You know, kiddo, Amy said the same thing." Jake reeled back at her words. Come to think of it, Amy said the same thing to him, too, back in the hospital before they left. Nellie continued. "But let's save the thanks when we actually get this through. To be honest, I don't have faith that this is going to work, but if _you_ believe this going to work, Atticus, then that's enough for me." She looked back at the elderly man in the back, who was examining the candles. Nellie could just whistle at the sight of their Great Uncle acting like a curious child and grinned.

"Now, would you look at _that_ …"

"Yeah, I know," Phoenix said. "He looks excited to actually do this. He thinks it's all a game."

"…I've always loved doing Ouija and supernatural stuff with my friends, too, back when we were younger," Fiske was saying, all too absentmindedly as he sat on an Indian seat on the floor. "Ah, this brings back memories. So, are we going to start with the actual magic spell of yours? I feel like a teenager being with you all."

Had Atticus, Jake, Dan, Nellie, Phoenix, and Ned been cartoon characters, they would have sweat-dropped.

* * *

It was ten pm, and Amy was already visibly tired trying to play nurse. Ever since Jake had left with the others a little more than an hour ago, she had been sitting on this very chair, keeping her eyes focused on the one person sleeping quietly on the bed. Ian had his head slightly turned to the side, his eyes closed and his breathing steady and rhythmic, one hand calmly put onto his chest.

Amy got up from her chair and walked over to the windows to tie up the curtains and reveal the glow of the city lights from below. She longingly stared down at the busy streets from up here in the hospital room, relishing at the temporary peace. She sighed at the thought that this quiet wouldn't last long—Ian had bolted straight up on his bed for already two times in less than an hour, breathing heavily from a nightmare. A nightmare, apparently, of that dreadful day of...her death. Amy had to make him drink sedative-induced tea to make him fall back into bed. He almost didn't want to go back to wherever dark void his mind seemed to fancy to take him, but it's not like Amy had to allow him to stay up all night. His fever was still pretty high, and he would need the rest if he wanted to heal.

_To heal._

Amy sighed. She tightly shut her eyes close. She didn't even want to think about it, but it wouldn't stop bugging her. Tomorrow would be the third day of Ian's Mystery Syndrome. Even if he _did_ heal from this fever, he'd still…he'd still…

Amy firmly shook her head. No. She shouldn't think of it that way. She walked over back to her chair and sat down, letting her thoughts flee. She stared at the same boy whom she thought had a crush on her back in the days when they were all so young and foolish. She smiled. Perhaps thinking of happy memories would be better than to think of grave ones, so she just let her mind do its thing—to fantasize and take flight.

She thought that he had liked her back in the past—after all, _he_ was the one who had pushed her away from the rocks that were about to fall on her and sentence her to death, back when they were about to enter that Korean cave. Even though it brought a heartache, she treasured that specific memory, because now it would always be a part of her past. He hadn't thought about his designer clothes, he hadn't thought about his own life being crushed, and he had actually thrown away his stuck-up-ness and _saved_ her, that time in Korea when they were just about to enter that cave. Now, she knew he must have only done it because they were in the middle of an alliance at that time, but still…

_Still._

Amy blushed. She felt butterflies in her stomach come to vivid life, and now she couldn't help herself from reddening, clutching at her knees while she kept her stare focused through thin air. She was just glad that the room was dark and she was alone, or else she wouldn't know how to deal with it. Gideon, she wouldn't know how to ever deal with it if _Jake_ were here. She felt a little guilty for thinking of things like this when she was in the middle of a relationship with Jake right now, but she couldn't… _quite_ …help it.

She looked back at Ian. She wondered if he still…liked her. It's not that Amy actually _wanted_ that to happen, gracious no, she only wondered out of…curiosity. Well, Ian had made it clear that he did not fancy being around Jake, and Amy had a suspicion she knew the reason behind that. But no, it _can't_ be. It can't be because of _that_. It can't be that Ian was actually… _jealous_ of Jake now that _she_ was his girlfriend now, right?

But Ian must have had too much in his mind right now to care about _that_. His sister had died an untimely death, and Amy understood that he felt guilty for that—even though he _shouldn't_. Even though Ian pushed away all the pity that the people around him had felt towards him, Amy still couldn't help feeling as such. She herself had lost Evan in the battle against the Vespers. The worst thing was, he wasn't even a Cahill but he still _sacrificed_ himself. She had felt terrible for having dragged him into this mess, and she still did. She loved Evan, and she still did; but she lost him, and it was her fault, and Ian felt the very same thing towards his sister.

Maybe that was why she cared so much about him. She and Ian had that sort of tiny connection—and no matter how tiny it was, it was _still_ the thing that bonded them. But even if that was the case, she knew that Ian's grief was much worse than hers.

It was difficult trying to move on. Amy, however, was slowly being able to overcome it. She was slowly starting to learn that filling her head with happy memories was much, much better—better than having to replay the awful day of Evan's death in her mind's eye like a broken cassette, screaming that it was her fault that he was gone now. That would not have been what Evan would have wanted her to do. He would want her to continue living her life.

Amy let her gaze rest sadly upon Ian. He, however, was not so fortunate. She knew it was hard for him to live without Natalie, but if he kept on remembering that day...he wouldn't be able to move on. By then, he would just be stuck in the past, never able to see the future. And would that what Natalie would have wanted him to think about for the rest of his life? No, surely, as his own sister, Natalie would want him to _live_ his life, just like what Evan would.

She had already told Ian about that crazy encounter she had with the afterlife, with Natalie walking happily with their mother Isabel, but Ian didn't seem really convinced of it. Ian didn't _want_ it to end this way, because what he would want was for Natalie to be walking beside _him_ , in the real world, together.

But that was not the case. It wasn't what anyone wanted, but no, Natalie was _dead_. Someday, he'd just have to learn how to let it all go. It was a pill too bitter to swallow, but he'd have to accept it. The tragedy of Natalie's death was too heavy for him to continue on carrying, and it would burden him for the rest of his life if he didn't _let it all go_. What he had to keep, to _cherish_ , was those happy little memories he had with her, when they were together. Amy hoped that someday, he would realize that Natalie wouldn't want him to live like this. It was all right to grieve, but exceeding to the point of self-exhaustion, to the point of _suicide?_

No, no…Natalie wouldn't want him to end his own life because of her.

But as she was thinking this, she suddenly heard Ian's voice, his muscles tensing, on his mouth the sound of only one word, of only one name.

_Natalie._

"Oh no," she muttered to herself, and she found two of her hands grabbing Ian's to reassure him that she was there. Not again. Not another _nightmare_.

"Ian, _please_ …"

* * *

Ian's eyes rapidly blinked themselves open, revealing the darkness that surrounded him. Dark. Black. He squinted. There was nothing else, but darkness everywhere he looked. Wherever direction he turned his head, it was black all around. It was a completely empty void of blank nothingness, with no direction, no noise, and no sort of sense of time, all gist of logic fainting away into tiny fragments of imagination. He blinked again, trying to make sure he was seeing what he was seeing, but the darkness did not fade away as he had hoped it will with each painful little blink. There was no visible up and down or left and right, there was absolutely _nothing_ —only him. He was still focusing on deliberating as to why he was here when he lifted himself up from the black ground, pushing at his knee to lever himself up to a standing position.

But as soon as he started to move, he felt the heavy clattering sound of metal, and when he looked, he found that both his hands and feet were shackled. He blinked, slightly struggling to raise his wrists in the air; the shackles could have weighed a ton. It was a heavy metal contraption, one made of thick, indestructible iron, each tightly hampered around both his wrists, and they were connected to heavy iron chains. Ian's eyes followed the connecting chains to see where it came from, to see where it ended, but he saw that the chains were stretched to far beyond in the darkness his eyes could ever see.

He was confused, and he let his eyes stare through the emptiness in rarefied contemplation. He let his arms fall blankly to his sides, surrendering to the tedious load of the manacles that bound him to restriction. He tried to see through the eyes of logic, but he was simply blinded by the turmoil that was going on in his mind. It was a grave feeling that bubbled at the pit of his stomach, it made him release erratic breaths that he struggled to control back into regularity, and it made his throat as dry as an abandoned well. It was not something he anticipated to feel.

It was fear.

He didn't want to admit to himself that he was here. No, he wasn't—not _again_. He didn't want to, because he knew these nightmares ended the same way—again, and again, and _again_ , over and over, tirelessly reminding him of how useless he was, of how such a shame he was to absolutely everything. He knew this place. This was a place in his subconscious where he had thought that he had already buried those fears far behind him, those nightmares he didn't want to see, or remember, or even hear of ever again. But _why_ was he here? _Why_ was he _chained?_ Is this one of those nightmares again?

He shut his eyes close, hoping that he would wake up to reality immediately. He didn't want to be here, he didn't want to experience that same nightmare all over again and end up in feeling even more pathetic than he already did—he didn't _want_ to.

 _Wake up,_ Ian told himself firmly, clenching his fists harshly, his whole body rigid, his eyes shut tight. He was determined not to fall as a slave to these nightmares again—he had to regain his former power. His mind was strictly his own, and he was _not_ letting it control him. Not again. _Just wake up…_

" _Ian!"_

His eyes bolted open at the tiny, faraway sound, all focus and control collapsing down into a heaping pile of now-forgotten debris.

"N...Natalie?"

He did not recognize the faintness of his own voice, what with the way that it shook with uncertainty and…and fear. He could only move his mouth to say that one tiny name, his dry throat unable to release another ounce of voice.

" _Ian, help me!"_

And that was what did it. He did not anymore care about waking himself up—someone was down here, someone was _calling_ on him, and he could not simply just ignore it and pretend he didn't hear. Because he heard that voice. He _heard_ it.

" _Ian, please!"_

A burst of energy ruffled throughout his body, heat filling his heart and fire consuming his mind. He forced himself to _move_ from his frozen standing position, lifting his hands and heavy feet and dragging with him those chains that tried to hold him back. The shackles around his wrists tightened with each movement he made, but he pressed down onto the scream that threatened to explode out of his mouth and reminded himself that it was just pain. Just physical pain. He ran, each step a gruelling battle against the weight of the chains, the tightening of the shackles—

Ian stood upright, not anymore knowing where he was supposed to be heading. "Natalie!"

A voice erupted from his right. _"I'm here!"_

The sound of that heavenly familiar voice invigorated him with a flurry of adrenaline, so he whirled his body around and propelled himself forward, forward, _forward_ , carrying with him the heavy weight of the chains as the sound of them clinking against each other rang on inside his ears. Everywhere he looked was nothing but a stark black void, there was no direction, _nothing_ , and when he looked forward, far and beyond, it was all the same oblivion that he had seen before. It gave him a blank sense to keep on running with all the force he had left. He did not let exhaustion take over him; his feet barely touched the ground as he sprinted, each thudding step making his heart beat like the sound of a thousand thundering drums. The contraption around his wrists were starting to burn with each step he made, the heavy, thick iron metal clasping themselves tightly around his wrists helplessly—he was tempted to stop and try to relieve himself of growing intensity of the agony, but Ian had no time to focus on his own physical discomfort. The chains were getting heavier and heavier to lift, but had to carry himself forward, he had to ignore his lungs' aching need for breath, he had to ignore his legs' exhausted desire for rest. He turned, left and right, and when he heard another of her voice, Ian ran towards that direction, all thoughts of himself crossed out, only _her_.

The iron around his wrists tightened and tightened and _tightened_ , a painful, burning ordeal that he just so blatantly ignored, even as they started digging into his skin, into his flesh, forcing out blood that now trickled down his arms to leave vivid red droplets on the floor as he swept across the darkness. No, he wouldn't give in, he _shouldn't_ give in; if he was going to find Natalie, if he was going to see her again, if he was going to bring her back to his life and return everything to normal like it had always been, he would _do_ _it_ , even if he had to go through the fires of hell, pain that was a hundred, a thousand, a _million_ times worse than this. The sight of her would be more than enough to heal that crater in his heart which had been bleeding ever since she went. Thoughts of her was what kept him sane, what kept him forward. His pulse thundered loudly as it pulsated in his ears, his sweat flew and his black hair swayed at the air in front of his focused, unwavering brown eyes, both of which were set straight into his one resolve—

" _Natalie...?_ " His eyes widened in temporary joy as he saw the very sight of her, from faraway but running towards him, just as desperate as he was. She seemed to chase all darkness away as she ran towards him with desperation that perfectly mirrored his own. Her white dress flittered gracefully from behind her as she ran towards him with her pale white feet bare against the cold, oppressive ground, onto her face splashing a waterfall of overjoyed tears onto her pale cheeks.

" _Ian!"_

He couldn't believe it. It was really her. It was really her. It was really _her_. Natalie flitted across the floor just as he was, both of them overjoyed to be together once again, desperate to reach each other and never let go. They were getting nearer, and nearer, and _nearer_ , until Ian was only one reach away. He let himself smile, he was going to make it, he was going to reach her, he was actually going to _do it_. He was so near, so very _near_ , and he held out his hand into the air as did she; and the tips of their fingers, they were just about to _touch_ —

The limited length of their chains restrained them, and they were suddenly yanked backwards, sending both of them flying back. Ian heard a shout escape from Natalie as he himself landed harshly onto his shoulder, causing pain to brusquely erupt from him and he himself couldn't help a shout as he rolled over in the ground, panting, angry at himself for not making it. He looked at his wrists, the shackles ever so tightening, and he cringed painfully at the erupting pain that had now been added onto his shoulder. He watched the blood drip from his pained wrists, darkness slowly swallowing the edges of his vision… No. He blinked rapidly to chase that darkness away—he couldn't, he _shouldn't_ collapse right now, it was just blood, just human blood, and bloody hell, it didn't _matter_. He had to put his one hand onto his shoulder and grip it tightly as he shut his eyes close, willing himself to chase that physical pain away.

No. He was not going to be stopped by something as measly as that— _he was going to try again_.

He forced himself to stand up, gathering the remaining amount of energy he had left for himself—which was not much, he knew, but he had to have more than that, he had to do _better_ than that, he _had_ to. He bit at his bottom lip and let out a shrivelling hiss as his pained shoulder harshly protested with an explosion of pain, but nevertheless, he pumped his legs and pushed them beyond their boundaries. Even as he stumbled and fumbled every so often, he would get back to his feet, never letting his eyes tear away from the sight of her for even just one painful little second. He was afraid that if he will, she would just suddenly vanish from his sight. Again.

But no. Not _now_. This time, _this time_ , he _swore_...

This time, it would be _different_.

He stopped running, breathless and panting. His eyes were wide and filled up with moist as he took in the sight of her. She was never more beautiful. Her eyes shined of glistening amber that he had never seen so happy, so overwhelmed before. She looked up at him, breath-taken, happiness washing over the two of them as they relished in the sight of each other. Ian could not believe it. His sister was _here_. He let out of him a broken chuckle as he grabbed his sister by the hand, pulled her to his chest, trying to restrain the sob that threatened to come out of his throat as he let Natalie rest her head comfortingly into his shoulder, her hair a wet mess of her own tears.

They stayed like that for a long moment, not caring about the time that had passed them by. Ian tightly held onto Natalie's hand, also dripping with the blood that flowed out of her wrists to mix with his own. He didn't want to let her go, no, _never_. Natalie gently pulled out of the hug first, and she looked up with Ian with tears in her eyes. She squeezed his hand back lovingly, and for once, Ian was glad to see his own sister not annoyed or frustrated by some Prada mishap or anything—she was just happy that they were finally together. They were Kabras, and they have been through far too much together that being separated would literally render one of them incapable to do anything.

But then they heard a noise. The siblings jerked their heads up to try to search for the source of the sound, and as Natalie whimpered her distress, Ian held onto her hand to assure her that he was there. He'll get them out of here, no matter what. Ian tried his best to detect what sort of sound he was hearing, already forming strategies in his mind on how to counter if it was an enemy. It continued to rumble out of the darkness, louder, louder, as if coming to enclose the two siblings with no other way to escape, and when he realized that he was failing to grasp anything, his resolute conviction slowly started to crumble down, that fear resettling in the pit of his stomach like a sickening lurch.

It was a familiar rumbling noise of a…a _machine_.

His eyes widened in horror as his mind suddenly went blank.

_She determinedly grabbed a discarded iron bar from the floor, the power of her fast-moving legs fuelled by immortal rage._

_She jumped into the air, throwing her metal weapon from behind to gather force, her black hair waving in the wind to accent those amber eyes that radiated the life of the sun._

_He watched his sister, amazed at her sheer bravery, a little girl blossoming into womanhood. But then, his eyes widened, as he suddenly realized what his own sister had put herself into—_

" _Natalie, no!"_

Ian's head exploded with pain at the memory, and as his knees trembled at the weakening force sent throughout his body, he slightly fell back as he held onto his head, closing his eyes shut, forcing the aching agony to go away . It can't be _that_ machine, it _can't_ be. Ian exhaled a calming breath. No, it can't be _that_ machine, it can't be...

Natalie looked up at him worriedly. "Ian, are you—"

The ground violently shook to interrupt, throwing both of them flat onto the floor, Natalie screaming a high-pitched scream as she accidentally hit her pained wrist when she violently hit the ground with a loud _thud_. Ian stifled his own scream as the pain on his shoulder exploded as if a thousand bullets had just been shot right into it. He was now lying flat onto the floor, and he reached for his shoulder, lifting his chained hand to grip it in an effort to ease the pain—but he stopped himself, almost immediately, when he was reminded that he shouldn't be taking care of his own physical comfort. In front of him, Natalie was a whimpering mess, scared and frightened and seriously injured on her wrists as the shackles continued to dig in to her flesh. He reached out to Natalie, grabbing her hand, and assuring her with a squeeze.

"Don't worry, Natalie," he said, an assuring look in his eyes, "It _will_ be alright. I promise."

A rumble frighteningly similar to the clashing of lightning and thunder crackleded throughout the black void of nothingness, spreading throughout, getting louder and louder, and Natalie couldn't help but let a frightened snivel escape her.

"Ian, don't...don't let me go, okay?"

He tried to smile for her sake, although it was forced, although it was hopeless.

"I won't."

And the sentimentality of the moment was suddenly ripped to shreds. An unknown force violently yanked onto Natalie's chains, a force so powerful it had thrown her body into the air. She let out a scream and Ian immediately got up from the ground, fighting against those bloody, heavy chains as he did so, and he held onto her hands to hold her back, wanting to keep up to his promise of never letting her go. He gripped his hands tightly around her own, and he pulled her back from the chains that kept on yanking her backwards from her chained feet. It was a battle between Ian and an unknown and unseen force from behind, a battle for Natalie. Ian was not here to stand motionless anymore—he was here to move, to take action, to be the responsible older brother he was _supposed_ to be in the first place. He was going to _prove_ to himself that he deserved to have an...

... _amazing_ a younger sister like her.

Natalie was now having very difficult time trying to keep her fingers linked with his, her body becoming more and more tired, incapable, as the force from behind her just continued to drag her backwards, into the pits of the darkness and down into death. She was in the middle of a fight between the two, and even though she didn't want to admit it, Ian was losing. She let out another one of her frightened whimpers, looking anxiously at his eyes. "Ian, please—"

"No, Natalie, I am _not_ —" he strained to pull her towards him, sweat now beading on his forehead, fear rippling in the ambers of his eyes as he desperately tried not to look exhausted, for her sake—" _not_ letting you go. We've just been together, so I'm—I'm never. Never…" He desperately pulled back on her, the resolute determination etched clearly onto his face.

The force yanked on them again, and now the Kabras were forced to strain themselves to keep their hands clasped tightly on to each other. Ian had to fight the force that was starting to pull him backward, too—but no, his only focus now was to keep Natalie safe with him.

"Ian, I can't hold on much longer!" Natalie started sobbing helplessly, and Ian felt her sweaty hands starting to slowly slip away. "I can't! I _can't_!"

Ian was aware of that, and he clenched his teeth. But he _can't_ just let her go like that without a fight—no, there's still a chance he could save them both. He firmly held on to her, no, he couldn't let her go, he _shouldn't!_

"Just hold on—"

" _Ian!"_

"Natalie, _please—_ "

"I _can't!_ "

"You have to!"

" _I'm trying!"_

He gritted his teeth, hands trying to clasp tighter around Natalie's, fighting against the chains that wanted them separated. What was he supposed to do? He didn't know! He wanted to rest, he was tired, _exhausted_ , of things _always_ ending up this way. They have been just reunited, and now, they had to be separated again? Just how cruel could his fortune be?

He was just thinking of this when something horrifying happened. Natalie's hand was getting more and more slippery with panicked sweat—and she couldn't hold on anymore.

"Natalie—"

One harsh yank from the chains, and she was thrown back into the darkness, away from Ian's hold.

"Ian!"

" _No!_ "

Ian pulled back tears. No, _no_ tears, he had to be strong for her. This couldn't be happening. She was being pulled backwards, into the pits of dark nothingness, and she was trying to fight—helplessly. With all his might he ran towards her to help, but the restricted length of the chains wrapping themselves tightly around his wrists and his feet stopped him from taking any step further. Horrified that he was frozen right into place, that he couldn't do anything, that he couldn't even do something to help, that it was happening _again_ , he watched Natalie as she screamed and begged for her life, the chains dragging her down the darkness until she disappeared, her voice fainting away, until it was nothing, into the depths of void.

Ian stopped struggling against the chains, the weight of what just happened sinking heavily into his stomach. He stood there, his face numbed as if stricken by a thick, cold block of merciless ice. That same rumbling of a machine cackled throughout the darkness, as if laughing at his own worthlessness, his failure, how he just proved to it that he absolutely did _not_ deserve her. He had done his best, but it apparently wasn't enough. He was just as powerless as he had been before. He hadn't done _anything_.

And nothing had changed.

A noise interrupted his thoughts of defeat. His eyes snapped open, and he realized that—

—he was suddenly thrown into the air, dragged through the empty blackness by the chains wrapped around his own limbs. A scream erupted from his throat like a desperate plea for freedom, but the helpless pleas were unheard as the chains just continued to drag him away, just as it had Natalie. Even though he tried his best to fight against whatever force it was, he still failed like a pathetic chicken in a battle against a dinosaur. He tried getting himself out, squirming and thrashing around, pulling and pulling, but his own fate was against him. It just continued on dragging him along, his hair whipping around through the non-existent air around him. He fell onto the pitch-black darkness of a cliff, where he fell onto that same void, desperately flailing his arms in the air, trying to grab at something, _anything_ , to save himself from whatever this was—but only seizing at empty air.

Only seizing at nothing.

And this time, he let himself release that cry that he had been restraining and keeping inside of him this whole time, not being able to control the emotion anymore, his voice cracking at just the sound of her name...

...as he was dragged deep down into the darkness.

" _Natalie!"_

* * *

"For the last time, Ian, _wake up!_ "

This time, he did, bolting right up from his bed, from his _nightmare_ , breathless and wild-eyed. Amy firmly held at both of his shoulders to keep him straight. Her eyes directly stared into his tempestuous ones that kept on throwing cautious gazes about the room as he slowly took in the fact that he wasn't anymore trapped in wherever hell he had just been through.

"No, no, Ian, look at me," Amy gently said, a soft attempt onto trying to calm him down with the serenity in her green eyes. When Ian obediently turned his eyes to stare at hers, he looked like he had only just noticed that he was actually in the safety of his own room, and it slowly made him calm down, just as Amy had hoped it will. The demonic fire in his amber eyes washed over with relief when he realized that he was in safety. Amy smiled for his sake as she finally climbed out of the bed, sighing with respite that that was finally over.

"You know," Amy said as she gave him a sideways glance, walking over to the water dispenser across the room. "That was the third time in one hour." She sighed as she bent down the dispenser to fill a glass, the sound of the water running down filling the empty silence that befell upon the room. Then, she turned off the dispenser, got up, and walked over to him, glass in hand as she swirled the water inside, staring at it thoughtfully as she talked. "You really should stop thinking about her, Ian. It's not bad to grieve, what's bad is that you dwell. There's a difference. You need to let go of—of…"

"So you're saying," he continued, blankly, "that I need to let go of her."

She let her voice trail off as she heard his voice respond to her, almost as if she hadn't at all expected him to talk. She looked up from her glass of water to look at him.

Ian was staring blankly, straight into space, his eyes still seemingly lost in whatever world he had just come out of. He was just like that, not even acknowledging her presence. He looked so…shattered.

Then, just like that, he sharply turned to her, tears now in his eyes but not daring to let them fall. His voice held the menace of a snake, angry, indignant, resentful. "Tell me, Amy," he said, trying hard to keep his voice straight, his gaze straight, not wanting to show any signs of weakness that was just about to break out any moment.

He emphasized each and every word with seething eyes.

"You actually _want_ me to let go of her?"

Amy let her eyes look at the ground for a second, berating at herself for what she might have said wrong, and telling herself to come up of what she might say to calm him down. Then she put down the glass of water onto the bedside drawer, then sat down onto the bed to put a comforting hand onto his shoulder.

"Hey," she said, calmly, releasing quite a broken smile for his sake. "It's just a nightmare. It's going to be alright."

" _Alright?_ What a very laughable word." He shrugged her hand off; it was nothing to him but an unwanted pity. Something glinted as he pulled out a Swiss Army Knife from under his bed. Amy gasped at the sight as he started to lift it into the air, as if to strike himself, a dark menace igniting in his amber eyes that glinted against the dark of the room. "It's _not_."

"I-Ian…" Amy was staring at the knife, widening eyes horrified beyond her own nightmares. Amy looked at him, horror in her own face, as she willed her voice to come out straight. "Wh-where d-d-did you…get that…."

"It's my fault."

Amy regained the strength in her words as she raged with fury. How it had ever crossed his mind that it was _his fault_ that things ended up this way, she had no idea.

"Ian, _please!_ It is _not_ your fault why Natalie—"

"I have to end this."

The glint of the knife against the moonlight seemed to reflect back in her frightened green eyes as he revealed its hiding blade, slowly raising it in the air, the malice in Ian's amber orbs glimmering with desperate Lucian bloodlust that chilled Amy to the bone. Whatever he had in his mind, it frightened her.

"No, Ian, you don't!"

"And death is the only way."

"It _isn't!_ "

Amy didn't even see herself do it. She suddenly sprang from her feet, leaping right into him to snatch the knife from his unwary hold, easily doing so before she jumped away from him as far as she could right after she had the dagger away from him. She held the knife tightly against her chest, not wanting him to even _think_ about him doing it.

"Look at yourself, Ian," she said, her voice dripping with apprehended concern, her eyes boring into his to try to get her message clearly across. "Just stop this! Do you think Natalie would be happy seeing you do this to yourself?"

"You are not fit to say her name." Ian clutched hard at the blankets beside him, the trepidation in his voice a vibrant resonance of his sorrow, his darkening eyes turned away from her. Then he sharply turned his head to face her, his resolve firm, his decision final. "Give it back to me, _Cahill_."

Amy flinched at the way he spat out the word as if it was poison in his mouth. _Well, it probably was_. His own family's identity as Lucians, as _Cahills_ , was the very thing, the underlying root, the core _cause_ , that brought him this misery, broke his family apart, filled his mother's eyes with lust for power, separated his father, and _killed_ his sister. Amy understood—she herself had blamed her bloodline several times for the things that happened in her life. Her family name, there was no denying it, was a curse.

But Ian had to understand that sorrow was a part of life.

She gripped her fingers tighter and tighter around the knife in her hands, not wanting him to have it. Her knees violently knocked against each other, but her voice was firm, her eyes were strong, as she mouthed that one word that would break the fragile silence that filled the air—

" _No."_

"No?" Ian smirked, sadistic, cruel, mirthless. He drew back his hand to him, looking dangerously calm that chilled Amy to the bone. She would have actually preferred him shouting at her. "How lovely. And there you were last night, crying to me as you told me that you understood. Pathetic." The smirk turned into a contemptuous scoff. "Now I know better."

The girl gulped at the harshness in his tone, face reddening slightly. "Wh-what?"

His mouth turned into a deadly scowl. "I thought you _said_ you understood."

Amy blushed in mortification as she remembered last night's events, when she had come crying to his room, begging him to open his door, saying that she understood. She _did_ understand him, she _does!_ But why did saying those words feel like such a difficult ordeal, now that Ian was asking her to say them again? Ian's eyes were challenging her, _daring_ her, and she wasn't about to give in right now. His false, dark philosophies in life, whatever it was, were _wrong_ , and Amy was the only one who could change it. So Amy forced the words out of her mouth in distressed fraught, clutching the knife nearer to her heart and out of his reach.

"I _do_ understand you, Ian!"

"Good." He smiled, although the smile was frightening calm, frighteningly mirthless—signs of insanity. "Then be a kind little girl and give me back what's mine."

Amy backed away. "If you really love Natalie, then you wouldn't want her to see you like this!"

"And you think I don't?" His voice came out harsh, and his eyes were boring sharply into hers. "You think I _don't_ love her, Amy? Look at me into my eyes, and tell me. _Tell me._ Do you _really_ think I _don't_ love her? I do love her, Amy! _I love Natalie, do you hear me?_ That's the reason why…" Ian clenched his fists. "That's why it hurt." Then the moment was gone, replaced by that former Lucian smile as he held out his hand to her. "Now. Give it back to me."

Amy felt her hands digging into the blade of the knife she was holding. Give it to him? And, what, let him kill himself? Is he out of his _mind?!_ This isn't like him! Giving up was not something Ian Kabra would do!

"I-Ian, suicide is not the solution to—"

"Can't you _see_ , you pathetic, wretched, blind bat?" The calm façade slowly wore off to reveal what was really inside. Ian covered his face with his hands in despair as he berated himself, wanting Amy to understand just how exactly the agony _hurt_. His voice was a cracking sob when he said, "I _killed_ Natalie—"

"Ian, it was all an accident!"

" _And I—"_

"Ian—"

"— _did—"_

"Please—"

"— _nothing!"_

And that was when he froze at the feel of arms wrapping tightly around him.

"You did nothing wrong, Ian, nothing, _nothing_ ," Amy said firmly as she hugged him, wanting him to believe that he wasn't alone in this. "You didn't kill her. Damien did." She released a shuddering breath as she said that one, vile name, that monster who dreamed of world domination and envisioned blood splattering on the ground as he did so. She opened her eyes, hugging him tighter, bringing her hand to the back of his head to let him know that he was allowed to hug her back, that her door was always open for him. "Don't you ever forget that for one second, Ian, you hear me? You did nothing wrong."

But Ian was frozen, not knowing what to believe, not knowing what to do. He didn't know where to stand anymore—his conviction had been firm that it was _his_ fault that Natalie was dead. Him, him, _him_. Damien was the cause, yes, but he had been too irresponsible of a brother, to have just let her go into that man's clutches without even doing _anything_ to stop her. He'd been completely useless. He had just stood there, watching her get herself killed. He'd done _nothing_. He was filled with anger, rage, and he clenched his fists so tight they might just burst. There was an unpleasant feeling itching in his throat, a lump bigger that he couldn't gulp down.

"It's okay to cry, Ian," Amy suddenly said, as if reading his thoughts, gently pulling back from the hug to look him in the eyes. "People cry not because they are weak. It's because they have stayed strong for far too long."

She looked at him into the eyes intently.

"And I know you have."

For one moment, Ian stared into her eyes, as if assessing if what she had just said was true. He almost gave in.

But he didn't.

"I…I need to rest," he said as he pushed her away, laying back down to sleep, turning away from her, and slamming the door right on her face.

But it was fine for Amy. She understood that it would take time for him to realize what it really meant to move on. So she said...

"My door would always be open for you, Ian."

And even if he didn't respond, Amy knew that he heard her.


	12. Amor Vincit Omnia

Quis custodiet ipsos custodes.

_Her throat was rough from coughing. Her lips were thin, her cheeks were sunken, and her limp hair did not glow as brightly as it usually did. Now it shimmered against the hospital lights in a weak, almost lifeless illumination that, to Atticus, seemed strangely like the ethereal halo of a dead, wandering ghost._

Quis custodiet...

 _The thought chilled him and he scolded himself for even thinking that way. His mom was going to be alright. He was sure of it. He_ had _to be. Atticus was just a young boy and he could never afford to live a life without his mom. She was the only person in his life who sincerely loved him for who he was. She was the only person who had never made fun of him, the only person who'd ever believed in him—despite everybody everywhere calling him a 'pathetic weirdo'._

...ipsos custodes.

_A 'pathetic weirdo'...Atticus forced out a shuddering breath. No. He pushed that thought from out of his mind. That part of his life was done and he was over with it. He had his mom by his side now, and no one would ever hurt him again. She would never leave him. She would be his guardian, and she would protect him from those bullies and shoo them away. Then she would kneel before him, look into his eyes, and remind him, once again..._

'Your weirdness is a gift, my son. Embrace it.'

_Atticus Rosenbloom would forget the words, time and time again—but his mother had always been there, never tiring of reminding him of who he was._

'It's a gift. Embrace it.'

_But now that his mother was dying, no one would be left to remind him. He would have lost a part of his life, and with it a huge junk of his identity. He would forget, and nothing would be left to remember. If his mother died, then the star that shone on Atticus' path would crash into the earth and everything will be darkness._

_All his life, his mother had been his guardian—an angel who led him into the right path, and who protected him from any malice that came along the way. But now that his sole guardian's life is hanging on the line..._

Quis custodiet ipsos custodes. _Those were the words of the second century Roman poet Juvenal in his infamous_ Satires _. This ancient Latin statement translated into, 'Who will guard the guards?'_

_And so the question stood._

Who will guard the guardian?

_Atticus grasped his mother's bony hands, willing the tears to stay put inside. He shouldn't have to cry._

_He was his mother's guardian now._

* * *

Fiske, Phoenix, Nellie, Jake, Atticus, Dan, and Ned sat around the circle, each of them accommodating the space pointed at by the seven-pointed star. Seven candles were placed in their respective spots. The room was dark, and the chalked magic circle, with the cursed, red-gemmed mirror placed in the centre, was surrounded by the seven partakers of the spirit-calling spell.

Dan miserably hung his head in the air. "I can't believe we're actually doing this."

They all couldn't. They've done complicated and unbelievable stuff as they crisscrossed around globe and almost gotten themselves killed several times in bone-filled catacombs or Egyptian pyramids and saved the world from the Vespers who dreamed of world slavery and global destruction. But doing a _magic spell?_ It just wasn't a Cahill thing.

Phoenix echoed Dan's statement by groaning. "I heard that for like thirty-nine times."

"Technically," Ned chimed in, "only eleven."

Jake leaned his head to whisper over to his brother's ear. "Att…" he started, his voice a little concerned. "If this doesn't work…"

Atticus determinedly stared through the air, completely ignoring his older brother. "It will."

"No, no—" Jake sighed. "All I'm saying is, _in case_ this doesn't work, Att, you have to realize that this is not really the rational way. I just don't want you to expect too much, but only get disappointed…in the…end."

"People back then thought that the world being flat is rational," Atticus immediately pointed out, matter-of-factly, as he looked up at him. "They thought that the sun circling the earth is rational. They thought that Mexico being the centre of the universe is rational. They thought that stars being diamonds in the sky is rational _._ " Atticus looked at his older brother. "People believed those things for thousands of years. How is it that you get to know _what_ , in actuality, is rational or not?"

"Okay, okay, I get your point," Jake uttered. "Just...don't be too disappointed if, like, nothing happens, okay?"

"Okay." The young boy scoffed in distaste. He hated being talked to like a child. "But no matter what you say, we will do this."

"No matter how nutty this all is?" Dan piped in, and Atticus looked up to see that all of them had been listening to their conversation all along. Even Fiske seemed intrigued, a silent question hanging into the air, waiting to be answered.

So Atticus nodded firmly at all of them to give them their answer.

"No matter how nutty this all is."

* * *

Astrid Rosenbloom was a university professor in Harvard who taught Latin classics and held authority over Greek history. She was a walking encyclopaedia of ancient facts and she was one of the few who continued to breathe life into the old forgotten stories that had survived on Earth for millennia. She was a historian of high-standing—

Yet she was also a mother who loved.

Today was one of those days. Those days when she told history by looking through a kaleidoscope, turning cold, hard facts into magical events that transpired in a fictional representation of the world. She very well knew that her dear Atticus was smart and didn't need a cushion, but still Astrid thought, in her muddled mind, that despite her son being a prodigy, Atticus was still a child—and children needed to be told stories.

Astrid was well aware that she was already living in her last days. This was a period in a human's life where regrets come alive, haunting you until you get to set your faults straight. Astrid realized that all this time, she had failed as a mother—she often spent her time at the university, barely even spending some minutes to bond with her dearest son. That was why, right now, she was telling stories. That was what mothers did, right? They told their children stories.

She realized that, in her musings, she didn't want Atticus to grow up into a cold, hard beacon of knowledge—Astrid wanted him to go through the fantastical stage of childhood, with a mother beside him to guide him along the pages of a children's storybook. She had failed in that regard, and that was why, with her death coming nearer by the end of each painful day, she knew that she had to fix her mistake.

"And the mighty knight said," said the mother, a delusional gleam in her eyes, "'I believe in dragons!'"

Atticus, on the other hand...

He found this entire situation completely preposterous. His mother was speaking of dragons and magic rings and the chivalries of a knight. Atticus didn't know what his mother was doing. This was really very unusual, very unlike her. Astrid Rosenbloom was a _professional historian_ for crying out loud, not a fantasy novelist.

That was why he thought that his mother must be getting delusional again.

Atticus wasn't too surprised. He wasn't too surprised by anything anymore. Astrid's periods of delusions came by regularly now. All the young boy could do was sit beside her and make her know, that through everything, even through illness and insanity, he would be there right beside her.

The fact was, Atticus had heard this story for a million times already. His mother was just getting on to the part where the hero needs to break the spell—by thwarting the evil act of revenge with an act of true love. Atticus knew that that was a bit overdone, really. The knight would consult the witch; the witch will tell him to break the evil spell with true love. Then the knight would slay the dragon, and then save the princess from the curse that has befallen her—by a true love's kiss. Every story ended that way. _Amor vincit omnia_ , so to say. His mother always ended her story with that memorable Latin phrase. After all, what fantasy story didn't end with love overcoming all?

Despite his mild, instinctual indifference, though, Atticus found himself leaning forward on his seat, riveted in his mother's tale of heroism and valour where love conquers all—storing her words away in a treasure chest inside his brain, where he could retrieve them again when the time comes.

Despairing over the fact that his mother was dying was not going to make anything better. That was why he was going to live this moment, so that the memories made would be ever so much sweeter.

The boy held his mother's hands and listened as she got to the part where the knight begins slaying the dragon.

* * *

Each of them held a match, and had lighted the candle respective to them. Finally, when Jake handed to Atticus the matchbox, the younger boy stroke a match and let the small flame touch the tiny wick of the candle in front of him. All of them nodded to each other once the setting required for the spell they were about to perform was complete, all candles already lighted. Atticus solemnly opened his eyes as he started to speak, his eyes staring straight as if probing into the depths of the mirror's ochre reflection itself, which was staring right back at him from the centre of the circle.

"I am Atticus Rosenbloom, and I—"

He was suddenly interrupted when a crackle of lightning and thunder was spat from the heavy and disconcerted night sky.

All seven of them looked about the attic worriedly as the rain started to fall in cascading collisions against the iron roof. The raindrops drummed sharply against their ears from up here in the attic. When they've all recovered and adjusted their hearing to the raining noise, Jake then urged Atticus to continue. The younger boy heaved a shaky breath, gulped, and, with dwindling confidence, did as he was told.

"I am Atticus Ros—"

—but was again interrupted by a whip of wind from the bolted window, whisking away the flame that was formerly glowing bright in Atticus' candle.

He gulped a second time, eyes frozen stuck as he stared right into the unlighted wick of his candle. When Jake noticed that his brother looked like he was instantly fossilized, every bone of his muscle locked tight, the older brother sighed, realizing that Atticus wasn't really being himself. Jake helpfully reached over to strike another match and light his candle himself.

Meanwhile, Atticus' mind was suffering from a raucous anarchy, different voices blaring from the different sides of his mind like a swarm of bees desperately trying to get his attention. The shouting voices stung his brain, forcing him to think again.

_What are you even doing here in the first place?_

_A magic spell? To call upon a spirit? Please!_

_You're Atticus Rosenbloom! You should know better than this!_

_And was it YOU who really dragged all these other people around in here in the first place? You're actually serious?!_

_What_ happened _to you?_

His thoughts of doubt were making his confidence wilt into hesitation, his resolve shrivelling down into wavering indecision.

_I shouldn't be doing this. Why do I even care? This can't work, this wouldn't work, I should have just left the job to the experts—the_ **medical** _experts who actually know what they're doing! I'm just an eleven year old kid who thinks the solution is to call upon a spirit. I'm not born to become a witch, am I? I am a history genius, not a magic enthusiast!_

"Th…this is…" Atticus mumbled under his breath, reeling away from the 'magic circle'. Magic circle? _What_ magic circle? That was just a chalk drawing on the floor! He couldn't believe he was the one who actually had this idea in the first place. He shut his eyes close. "This is ridiculous."

"If magic isn't," said Ned, which made Atticus look up at him, "then it'd be called science."

Jake nodded to reassure his younger brother. Then he reached to squeeze Atticus' hand in his, making the younger look up at him in shock.

"I am Jake Rosenbloom." Then he linked his other hand with the smiling girl beside him.

"I am Nellie Gomez."

"I am Phoenix Wizard—"

"Name's Dan Cahill."

"I am Ned Starling..."

"—and I am Fiske Cahill."

Atticus looked at them, wide-eyed. When his conviction was weak, they became strong for him. It made him release a smile, his own confidence in this working returning. _So what if others think this is ridiculous? We're doing this to save a life, it is noble, and it is not something to be ashamed. I shouldn't be ashamed._ Comforted and encouraged by the people that surrounded him, Atticus looked at the hand that Jake was offering for him to take.

And held it.

"And I," he said, firmly, throwing that shred of doubt away, "am Atticus Rosenbloom."

Nodding to each other, all of them, with a united voice, said, just as they had in their rehearsal, "And together, we call for the spirit of Glinda Godfrey, the youngest of the Seven Sisters of Esmeralda."

Atticus took the lead from thereon. "We heed to summon your divine spirit to hereby grace us with your majestic presence, dearest Glinda, in hopes of granting us your power to help feed our desire for an answer that only you can ever know."

And then…

…silence.

For several seconds.

Until Dan finally broke it, forcing Atticus to open his eyes and look at him.

"Uh…" Dan said. "…this is… _ahem_ …awkward…"

He said the word 'awkward' silently as if to whisper to the wind, his lips puckering as he did so. He didn't know how else to react.

"Is something supposed to happen after you say that?" Nellie finally asked the question all of them had been itching to ask, the girl looking questioningly at the boy who instigated it all.

Atticus felt like he was being pelted with stones as he sat in the middle of it, being stared at by the other six people whom he had dragged in to do this ridiculous spell in the first place. That feeling of doubt started resettling itself once again into the pit of his stomach—and it was not a very pleasant feeling at all.

"Y-yes…" he said, faintly. "She—Glinda—she's supposed to be…"

"Floating right over the mirror over there as a ghost and speak to us all with a heavenly glow in her eyes or something?" Ned threw up his arms in the air. "Face it, Atticus. Doing a _magic spell_ is not going to work."

"Now, now, children, let's not fight," Fiske interrupted. "Isn't this supposed to only be some fun experiment?"

"Maybe…" Jake uncertainly looked over his brother, whose expression was as tight as a shred of tense muscle. He knew this was coming. If Atticus was going to cry over this… Sigh. "Maybe you just missed something," Jake quietly pointed out, trying to be helpful to the situation, although he very well knew that it was not very much.

"No, I did what the book said!" Atticus argued. He scrambled from his position to reach over a wooden table, where the open book was laid. He flipped a few pages, muttering under his breath about the dusty and yellowed leaves, until he stopped at a page with an Aha! Then he read the passage to the rest of them, with a fervent desperation expected from someone who was trying to prove a point.

"'To summon a spirit, one must create a magic circle—' well, we have that, so check—'gather round a group of seven people'—check—'make sure that you have the person's possession placed in the centre—' check '—and must announce each and every one's identity.' Check. 'Only then must you confidently say your purpose for calling upon the spirit who you wish to speak to. The candles must be lighted, the room dimmed dark.' Well, check, check, check."

The room fell silent, each trying to process what he'd just said.

Until something struck Dan.

"Hey, didn't you say that Glinda was from the 1500s?" Everybody looked at him, their curious looks encouraging him to go on. So he did. "Maybe Glinda didn't understand your _modern_ English. How about ye say yer words, the _olde_ English style? Like so."

"You sound like a pirate," Ned pointed out.

Nellie and Phoenix snickered at this, ignoring the frown they received from Dan who sat across them.

Atticus pondered Dan's suggestion carefully for a few more seconds. He was starting to get worried that this spell might not work out after all. But…well…not everything works out the way you wanted to in the first time, right?

"Okay." He gulped. "We try again."

Atticus sat back down on his respective place, and all seven of them said their names once more, just as solemnly as they had before. This went on until it came upon Atticus again to say the words required—old English style, just as Dan had suggested.

"We heed to summon thee, thy divine spirit of Glinda Godfrey, to hereby gracest us with thy majestic presence, in confident hopes of granting us thy knowledge to help feed our desire for an answer that only thou can ever knowest, thus our predicament be unpickled."

Nellie tried to smother her laugh by clearing her throat at the word 'unpickled'.

And then…

There was no ka-boom, or a flash of heavenly light.

Just silence.

The same as before.

"…awk…" Someone whispered, ever so silently, and all heads turned to Dan. "…ward…"

"Ah, forget it!" Ned stood up from his Indian seat and decided that moment that he was going to get out of here. "This is not going to work!"

"Now, now…" Fiske tried to say, but his calming voice was drowned out by Ned's stomping away and banging of the door, and Nellie, Jake, and Phoenix trying to stifle their laughter. This got Atticus' attention, faintly sparking that fire inside of him that he didn't even know still existed.

"Why are you laughing at me?" he bravely confronted them. Their laughing quieted into guilty looks.

"L-Look, Atticus," Nellie said. She cleared her throat, struggling to get the words out with a straight face. "Look, kiddo…the only reason we played along was because you were so...persistent about it, you know? We had to play along because Jake said you might cry or someth—"

Hurt shattered the innocence that veiled Atticus' eyes. _"Played_ along?"

"Well, you can't really expect us to, you know, expect a spirit to actually appear and talk to us right here," Dan said. "It just isn't real life. But dude, if only you saw how grave serious your face was back there!" Then he slapped his knee in laughter. "Never seen you look so weird my entire life."

That small spark of fire burst into flames.

_Weird._

_Weird._

_Weird._

Everyone in school called him that. Dan was the only other person in the entire world who didn't call him that.

But now…

Fiske must've noticed Atticus stiffen like a rock, because he then said, "My, my, you seem gravely serious about this, child." The elder put a hand onto Atticus' shoulder to try to reassure him. "Please do not take the others' comments as personal attacks." He shot a specific look to Dan. " _Especially_ Daniel's."

"It's not Daniel, it's Da—! Ugh, never mind." Dan waved a hand as if to wave that statement away. Then he turned to Atticus. "Look, buddy, I think you need to get some rest. This day was so hectic, what with the scavenger hunt we just had, that, you know, didn't even _have_ a price for the winning team." He shot back to Fiske a specific glance. The elder returned it with an embarrassed smile as Dan continued. "Att, I think you need to go to bed too, refresh that formerly awesome mind I know you have. All day you've just been acting...weird."

He said it again. The second time in one minute.

Weird.

"I…I…" Atticus' voice was shaky, but the more he wanted his words to come out straight, the more they refused and shook with uncertainty. " _I…_ "

His mind was still trying to wrap around the fact that the only person left in the world to accept his oddness actually called him ' _weird'_. He thought Dan was his friend. The real reason that he had even befriended the Cahill in the first place was because he, other than his own mom, was the one person who had loved his weirdness, and not actually reeled away from him because of it. But now, seeing Dan stare are him like that as if he was an abnormally alive headless chicken, it…it made Atticus feel something he hadn't felt before, at least not in a long time.

A yearning to see his mom again.

She was the only one who understood him, that not even his very best friend couldn't.

The only one to remind him of that shrivelling lie...

' _Embrace it.'_

Jake suddenly cleared his throat and gripped Atticus by the shoulders to stand him up to his own feet. "Hey guys, Dan's right. We should call it a night."

"Ah, finally!" Dan got up from the floor, as if he didn't even notice the distress he had just caused his best friend. "Well, guess I better go to sleep!"

"It's ten pm..." Phoenix stretched his arms after he had checked onto his watch and yawned sleepily. "It's already _way_ past my bedtime."

"Yep," Nellie said, too, as she got up along with them. "You guys go get some sleep. I'll just clean up a bit in here." Then she acknowledged Fiske, who was trying to stoop low to avoid a diagonal wooden post as he went out the door. "Hey, Fiske. In a hurry? Going somewhere?"

"Yes, I am going to bring Amy food and clothes in the hospital. It's past visiting hours, but hopefully I'll be able to get through…" he shrugged. "Well, isn't that what you told me earlier, Jake?"

Jake slapped his forehead as if he had forgotten, which was exactly what he said. "Oh, right! Right, right, I almost forgot…Would you mind if I came with you, Uncle Fiske?" He, along with everyone else, had started on calling him 'Uncle' too. Well, technically he wasn't an uncle by blood, but he didn't know what else to call him—and, besides, the old man had insisted to treat him like family.

"Why, aren't you going to bed already?" Fiske inquired with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah, but I want to see how Amy's doing," he responded. Then he gestured to Atticus, who was standing beside him. He fondly patted his younger brother on the head as if he were a dog. "I'll just tuck my little bro to bed for a minute."

Atticus disgustedly reeled away from his brother's doggy pat. "Jake! I am not a baby anymo—"

"Well then," Fiske purposefully interrupted with a knowing smile towards Jake. "I'll wait for you downstairs."

The elder's footsteps eventually dwindled away. Then, as Jake looked down victoriously at Atticus, the younger boy gruffly crossed his arms with a pout.

* * *

Light from the outside poured into Atticus' dark room as the Rosenblooms stepped in, after opening the door with a slight creak. Jake flicked the switch on, and the lights from above blinked to life, until it washed over the beige room with a steady white glow. Jake led Atticus into his bed as he made sure that he was going to sleep already and not read some history book while he was away. Atticus grumbled under his bed about being treated like a child and something else that Jake's ears couldn't catch.

"What?" he asked, sharply, not liking what he thought he just heard. _Since when did Atticus curse?_

" _Nothing_ ," the younger Rosenbloom snapped just as sharply at him, settling into his bed and pulling the sheets over his head.

"Att…" Jake sighed, not knowing what else to say to his grumbling little brother. He _knew_ this was coming. When Atticus doesn't get what he wants despite working hard for it and putting so much conviction into it, he is always hit by disappointment so hard that it would last for the whole week. This was what had worried Jake all along. "Atticus. Don't let this bother you. I mean, you _really_ didn't expect it to work, did you?"

There was some silence for a while.

"Honestly, I did." Atticus' voice was muffled from underneath the sheets.

Jake wasn't surprised. He knew where Atticus' belief in magic comes from. "Because of mom?"

"Mm-hmm."

"She was always a fan of fairy-tales," Jake said as he smiled at the air, reminiscing the memory. "Although I find it weird that while you are practically a history fan boy geek-slash-nerd, you believe in dragons and stuff like that."

"Oh, so that's _weird_ , huh?" Atticus bit back the word as if it was poison in his mouth.

"Hey, don't mind me so much. I don't think of what I say." Even Atticus chuckled at this, making Jake release the tension he didn't even realize he'd been holding. Jake continued. "And, also, if this makes you feel any better, wasn't Mom also a history fan girl, but she also believed in fairy-tales, too, despite that? Now that I think about it, you're really similar to mom. She was a rose in bloom."

Atticus snickered from under the sheets. He knew what card Jake was playing right now, and Jake was glad that he recognized that old joke about the rose in bloom thing and their family name.

"History and fairy-tales don't mix, but in the case of the both of you, they do. The two of you _are_ weird. And you have to be proud of your weirdness. Embrace it." Jake paused. "Why do you do that, anyway?"

"Do what?"

"Mix history and fairy-tales."

Atticus pulled down the sheets from his head to look at Jake with a sigh. "Well…" he fiddled the edge of his blanket with his fingers. "I don't know the answer myself."

"But I do." Jake leaned forward to pat him on the forehead, and immediately got up from his seat before Atticus could complain about being treated like a child. "Because I _know_ that dragons are real—"

Atticus all but choked on his own saliva. _"What?"_

"Not in the way that they _are_ real, but in the way that they _can_ be defeated."

Atticus was so dumbfounded at his suddenly old-and-wise words, that he just stared at his older brother as Jake made his way for the door. Jake turned off the switch. "'Night. Things'll be better in the morning."

…but before Jake could completely close the door, Atticus immediately piped up from the darkness of his room.

"Uh, hey, may I read a few books before I—"

"Hands off that book, young man," Jake harshly cut off. "On your bed. _Now_."

"Aw."

* * *

It was silent in the car the moment Jake had stepped into it.

Fiske was driving, eyes steadily focused on the traffic ahead. The different-coloured lights of the city reflected back on their grave, serious faces, the noises of the road a less-than-busy hustle than it must have been a bit earlier ago. Well, it _was_ around ten-thirty in the night already, so no one would have expected the road to be full of cars. In fact, Fiske was driving in a reasonable speed in the almost-clean road, with only a few occasional trucks meeting up with them here and then. The car then stopped to a stable whirr as Fiske stepped onto the brakes, the stoplight ahead showing red.

Jake sat on his seat quite awkwardly, uncomfortably fiddling with his fingers, as he awkwardly stared around the car, pretending to admire the fuzzy dice that hung on the rear-view mirror. He was trying to think up of a conversation—he didn't think he could last another forty-two seconds (as what the stoplight showed) doing nothing but sit in this silence like a muted dog.

And when he thought up of a topic, he immediately went for it…

"Hey, Uncle Fiske."

Fiske looked up at him, all too enthusiastically. "Yes, son?"

…and instantly regretted it.

Jake looked away. Why would _he,_ of all people, want to bring up _that_ kind of topic? He berated himself for even thinking about it in the first place. It's just a waste of breath talking about _him_. He shouldn't have even started a conversation at all.

"N-nothing, Uncle Fiske, never mind."

"What is it?" Fiske prodded, giving him a sideways glance.

"It's nothing."

"I could use some conversation in this silence," Fiske said, as if he had been on the same page with the Rosenbloom all along. "Go ahead with the question."

"Well...here it is." He heaved a breath, then released it, the words tumbling out of his mouth like a rush of river over a cliff. "I was just wondering how Ian ended up being seen as the bad guy back in the Clue Hunt."

It took Fiske a moment to register his words, blinking his eyes as if trying to process if what he heard was right. Then he looked back at the Rosenbloom with a knowing smile.

"Ian Kabra, you say?" The stoplight turned green, and Fiske sped away among other cars beside him, leaving dust in their wake. "Weren't you always angry with him? Why the sudden interest?"

"Because I realized that...my hating him is…a…a…" he gulped. Moment of truth. "A little biased." There, he said it. He slumped back into his chair, trying to avoid the probing green eyes of the old man beside him. "Admittedly, I don't really like the guts of the guy whenever he looks at Amy all lovey-dovey. But besides that, my anger of him is really...how to say this..." He took a shuddering breath. It was hard enough to admit it to himself, but admitting it to another person?

Then he let it out. "…shallow."

Silence passed by on them for a few seconds as they sped through the driveway, the night scenery outside speeding by in a blur for Jake as he stared out the window.

"Oh." It seemed as though that was the only thing Fiske could say for the moment. "So," he said, poking through the silence. "You finally realized, didn't you?"

" _What?"_ Jake all but fell from his seat as he stared right at Fiske. "What do you mean by ' _finally_ realized'?"

Fiske chuckled. "The rest of us—including Amy—agree that your hatred concerning Ian _is_ shallow." He regarded him with a meaningful gaze. "You were the only one who didn't know about your own...superficiality." How Fiske hoped that Jake wasn't fond of big words so that he couldn't understand what he really meant. "And so, I am glad that you finally realized yourself."

"So all this time, you were talking about me behind my back about my _shallowness_ ," Jake groaned. _Oops_ , Fiske thought. It seems as if he'd underestimated the Rosenbloom's vocabulary. "And, you know," Jake continued quite sarcastically, "that's a really nice thing for you to do."

"You have to understand that Ian is a very complex character." Fiske drove by an intersection, whose stoplight was thankfully blinking five seconds green, before passing by just in time before it turned red. Then he continued talking. "To answer your question regarding how he 'ended up a bad guy' in the season of the Clue Hunt, you must be thinking, particularly, at the time when he and his sister had attempted to trap Amy and Dan in a Korean cave. Right?"

That was exactly what Jake had been thinking about. He'd heard the Korean cave story from Amy, and that was exactly the root of his hatred against the Kabra. "Yes."

"Well, at a young age, I reckon that he'd been exposed to missions of trickery and ruthlessness. He grew up in Lucian values. To reach the top even if you had to splatter blood in the process. He only trapped Amy and Dan in a cave because, I am not really certain, but his mother may have had to force her children to do so. As you know, Isabel is the person who had attempted to get all the Clues to herself. She had even shot her own daughter in the foot because they dared become disloyal to her. So, really, the problem is bad parenthood, not them. Ian and Natalie...they are wholly innocent. Even I must say."

Jake was sent into silence. So Fiske continued.

"You don't have to berate him for something he hadn't had a choice with. His mother was controlling him. He was only fourteen back then, a mere child. And his and Natalie's choice to abandon the Lucians and join the Madrigals was a very difficult choice for them. You have to understand that they _abandoned their family_ and left behind their legacy—all in the name of saving the world. You have to be amazed at the Kabras' dramatic change in such a short amount of time. I myself am. Ian and Natalie—they were born with good hearts. They were only nourished with…poison. Instead of water."

Jake turned his head away in guilt. The Rosenbloom was out of words other than a single, faint, almost inaudible whisper of "Oh."

They drove the rest of the way in silence. Eventually, the road ran out and they could see the building of the hospital from a distance. They drove in, but not without a predicament. Fiske had a long gruelling talk with the security guard at the gates who argued that the visiting hours were over, but when Jake piped up to say that it was Dr Jinjing Liu himself who had summoned them, the security guard felt trapped for a moment, but eventually let them in when Jake let him see the card Dr Liu had given him. They quickly found a spot to park (the parking lot was almost empty, save for the vehicles owned by the hospital workers themselves) and then they went through the doors of the hospital with a flourish.

"And, oh, by the way, who is this Dr Liu?" Fiske asked.

Jake casually put his hands behind his head as he started to say that Dr Jinjing Liu was Ian's doctor, but something stopped Jake from doing so. As the two of them stood in the middle of the white tiled floor of the lobby, Jake had spotted someone familiar from afar who was talking busily with a nurse. So Jake Jake dropped his hands by his sides, and...

"Dr Liu!" he shouted, earning him pretty sharp gazes from Fiske and the lady at the reception desk. Jake cringed, letting out a smile that said 'Sorry!' Dr Liu seemed to have recognized Jake, though, because he dismissed his nurse and walked towards them with a professional stride.

"Ah, _there_ you are, Jake Bloomingrose!" said the kindly Asian doctor.

Jake frowned. "It's Rosenbloom, sir."

But Dr Liu barely even cared. "Is this the guardian of Ian whom I have asked you to bring?" The doctor gestured to Fiske, who took a step forward to introduce himself and shake his hand. "About time these kids brought me some adult to have some serious talk with. Please, Mr Cahill, let us go this way."

"But of course." Fiske briefly turned to Jake first to hand him the duffle bag he'd been holding. It contained the food and clothes Amy had asked for them to bring. "You bring this to Amy. I will be talking with Dr Liu for a moment."

"Okay."

* * *

It was quiet in Atticus' room as he eventually fell into a deep sleep, long after Jake had left him for bedtime. The clock ticked the seconds of the night away, lulling the crickets from outside into tranquillity. The young boy in the bed muttered occasional, muffled words, probably from a dream in his sleep. It was such a peaceful sight.

But then, when he cracked one eye open, he found out that he was not in anyplace that he had ever known of. His feet touched the dews of the cool green grass, and when he looked up, he saw clouds drifting peacefully across the gentle blue sky. The cool day wind blew on his hair and he relished in it for a moment, closing his eyes to feel the peace and quiet, something he hadn't felt for such a long time.

But then, a voice from behind him interrupted, almost making him jump out of his bones. He turned around to see a seven-year-old girl adorned with a flowing white dress, innocently staring right up at him with those big, bright eyes of hers.

"Hello!" she said, waving a hand at him, almost shyly. "My name is Glinda. I heard you calling so...here I am!"

He gaped at her.

_What?_

It took all of Atticus' willpower not to _scream and run for the hills_.

* * *

Jake walked through the hallways with the duffle bag slung over his shoulder. The nurses gave him curious looks, probably wondering why a visitor was roaming around in here in the middle of the night long after the visiting hours had been closed for limits, but he ignored them, just continuing on walking further until he stopped in front of a room that read the numbers 239.

He sighed under his breath. 239. Now _that_ seemed like a cruel joke. Wherever the number '39' was, it seemed to be the sole core of bad luck for the Cahills around in here. Take this room as a prime example. He knocked the door once, faintly, quietly, trying to make sure if Amy was awake or not. But, receiving no other answer but the silence from the other side of the door, he slowly opened it, and—

—and blinked at the unexpected sight.

Ian slept peacefully in his bed, sinking into his blankets as the exhaustion of the day caught up with him. Amy was holding his hand tightly as she sat on her chair, but with her head resting gently onto Ian's bed, eyes closed in peaceful sleep.

Jake was tempted to walk right up there and knock Ian over his bed and shout at him for even sleeping with _his_ girlfriend. It was so easy for him to do it.

But no. Who was he to break this temporary peace of the night that they probably haven't felt in such a long time? He smiled as he walked over and placed the duffle bag on the floor beside Amy's feet. He lifted some strands of red hair that covered her face and bent down to whisper, "Goodnight."

Then he turned to Ian. "You too, Kabra." He smiled, even though he can't see him. "Ian. Get well."

As he left the room, he thought about his own bed back at home. Oh, it had been a long day, from that unsuccessful scavenger hunt, to searching for Ian in the rainy streets, to the sight he'd witnessed Amy and Ian were doing in her room, to them finally making up, and, now, this. It felt like it had been years. How he missed his bed—he really needed to get some rest.

All of them did. Because, if the curse of this mirror really _was_ true, then…who knows what the maledicted third day may bring? They'd need all the energy they can to fight this Mystery Syndrome that wanted to kill one of Amy's friends.

And, Jake thought, _no one_ messed with Amy's friends. Not if they didn't get through him first.

* * *

" _Glinda?"_

Atticus could literally _not_ believe what he was seeing in front of him. A seven-year-old girl with a flowing white dress stood before him, eyes so big and bright and curious—just like any other innocent child one would see asking for two cents of candy in a candy store. Except this wasn't that kind of a normal child.

This was a _ghost_.

Atticus was so tempted to scream right at that moment while ripping his hair out of his head in shock, fear—and those other typical reactions one would have upon registering it in their mind that what they were seeing in front of them was a real, undead, yet breathing supernatural being that was not supposed to exist in the first place. Atticus felt like his rational mind was starting to shut down. He was starting to hyperventilate.

But the child—Glinda—cocked her head to the side, getting his attention ripped away from his panic for a moment, something which he was momentarily grateful for.

"Why are you so shocked in seeing me?" asked the girl. "You _called_ me, didn't you?"

He wanted to get one word out. He was _desperate_ to get one word out, even just _one_. But his throat was dry, his tongue was dry, and his lips were rendered incapable of speech. His mind was still trying to process the details of this extremely impossible phenomenal occurrence that might be just the greatest in the history of witchcraft and necromancy. _Him_ , Atticus Rosenbloom. _Her_ , Glinda Godfrey. He'd just called upon a spirit. A ghost was literally _talking_ to him. All because of an ancient magic spell. Real, real, _real_. It really worked. He knew that he shouldn't be surprised, that this was what he wanted to happen in the first place, but still—he didn't really _really_ expect it from happening. But it was.

How was that even _possible?_

He must have been staring blankly right into Glinda's light, pansy blue eyes for several minutes that she must've felt awkward by the lingering silence. She shifted, uncomfortably scooting her feet sideways, as if to walk away from him. "Did you not…call for me?"

But Atticus did not answer. He just gaped at her, point-blank, lips parted into an expression of shock. That was the only thing he was literally capable of doing at the moment.

"Well…" said Glinda as she started to walk away, leaving him behind. "If you do not wish to talk, then I suppose I should just send you back to the mortal realm, then..."

"Wait!"

Glinda stopped walking and looked back at him with bright, inquisitive, sky blue eyes. Her look enough posed the question, so Atticus stepped forward to answer. It was now or never.

"There is something I should ask you."

* * *

"A cure?"

"Yes," he replied, forcing his voice to steady. Atticus crossed his fingers, gulped, and steeled himself for whatever answer she will give him. But he had to keep himself strong, even in the foreboding advent of the worst case scenario. Then he looked back right into her eyes.

"Well, is there?" he prodded, desperate. "Is there a cure?"

The brightness and innocence of her pastel blue eyes darkened to a stormy rage as she looked down, mainly to avoid the Rosenbloom's probing eyes.

"There is no cure."

There goes his worst case scenario.

"My sisters and I intentionally cursed the mirrors without putting a thought into creating a cure." Guilt etched her next words, but Atticus spotted no regret. She lifted her head up to determinedly stare right through the air, the eternal blueness wiped away by the rage of fire. "King Marcosias deserved it. He _killed_ our mother. He should suffer the same grief which he had placed upon seven of us sisters, and this curse is the only way that we could repay him the favour."

"King Marcosias...? So he _really_ existed?" For all Atticus knew, it was the Tudors who ruled England back in the 1500s. "You are not just a legend after all?"

"Of course not." The look in her eyes were defiant, insulted even. "Why are you reducing this history into a fairy-tale? This is no fairy-tale. King Marcosias actually existed." Glinda sighed. "At least, he did."

"Huh? What do you mean by that?"

"Each of our mirrors was cursed with a powerful spell. Multiply that spell seven-fold, and the power unleashed would be enough to permanently erase the existence of Marcosias. Erasing his existence means removing his name from reality, memories of his reign, and everything, _all_ truths about him is reduced into a mere legend. That is why you think that it was these 'Tudors' who ruled in the 14th century, when actually it was originally Marcosias and his nauseating family." Glinda could have spat out the words with the venom she'd put in them.

"So." Atticus lowered his gaze to the ground. "Do you...really hate Marcosias that much?"

"Yes. I did. That was why my sisters and I cursed our mirrors. Marcosias killed our mother, and we wanted him to experience the same grief, over and over again."

"That's why Ian must be having his delusions," contemplated Atticus. "He is under the curse because he possessed one of your mirrors. He is feeling an intense grief, and in a time span of three days...the misery will kill him from inside out."

Glinda nodded. "To curse the mirrors, we sought the help of Urd. Being the demigoddess of the past, she was the only divinity who could understand our want for vengeance. We asked her to curse the mirrors, but in exchange, she required a pinch of anger contained in our souls to use it to power each of the seven mirrors." She bit her lip.

"In fact...the very reason that I haven't yet rested in peace is because my soul is still not whole. A part of it is trapped inside that mirror. My sisters and I have been wandering aimlessly for centuries now, and...all I want is to rest in peace."

"So…so you're saying…" Atticus' forehead scrunched up in thought as the words slowly made their way out of his tongue. "…you're saying that a part of you and your sisters' souls…are trapped. _Inside_ the mirrors. To power up the curse. And you still haven't rested in peace. Because your soul…is still not yet whole…?"

Glinda didn't even seem to spot the scepticism in the boy's tone. "Yes," she said, gravely. "On the third day, the spirit of Urd will arise, use my soul to consume your friend's soul. He will then trap the very core of his existence inside the mirror forever."

Atticus visibly blanched at the idea. "Urd will _eat_ Ian?"

"Consume his soul," she corrected.

"Consume his soul." Atticus nodded along, as if knowing all this was just a bunch of facts about Grecian history even though he absolutely had _no idea_ was he was actually nodding about. "But...can't we just…you know… _break_ the mirror?"

"Of course you can't," was Glinda's ready answer. "The mirrors are enchanted. It can only be broken once the spell placed upon it is broken."

"Right, of course." As if he expected it to go _that_ easy. "And how do we break the spell?"

"I have already told you," she said, calmly, patiently. "There is no cure. Our want for revenge against Marcosias back then had been far too strong to be broken by any sort of existing spell."

"Your want for revenge against Marcosias…" Atticus mumbled in echo, his voice trailing away in contemplation. Muscles drew the skin around his eyes tight as he ran his fingers along his jaw. Something scratched at the very back of his mind, a very vague memory struggling to be freed...but it had been stored far too deeply to get out. His eyes grew glazed for a few more moments, before staring back at his otherworldly companion.

"So you said you haven't yet rested in peace. If you forgave what Marcosias did to you in the past, if you just let all this revenge thing go...would that free your soul? Would your forgiveness finally destroy the curse of the mirror? What if you just…let go of this whole revenge thing, and…well…"

"I've already forgiven Marcosias."

Atticus' eyes grew in shock. "Really? Then why is it still…?" He let his voice trail off.

"All of this relies, not upon me, but upon the holder of the mirror," she said, hope sparking her eyes. "The only way I could truly rest in peace is if the holder of the mirror would…." She sighed, letting her voice trail of to start again on another sentence. "I do not know the cure of this curse since no one else lived to survive it, but I have an… _idea_ on how you could break it."

"Really?" Atticus was suddenly so happy he could just jump up and down. "Then why didn't you say so!"

Glinda smiled. "Revenge, hate, resentment…retribution, vengeance, reprisal, or payback, no matter how you call it, are all human but evil things."

Atticus didn't know why, but as Glinda began speaking those words, he felt as if his mother's loving spirit has just suddenly descended upon him, reminding him, _prompting_ him, urging him to remember what has already been long forgotten.

"Evilness," continued Glinda, "is the one thing powering the curse of the mirror. But, there is a way to counteract evilness."

_Remember me, my son..._

"As they say," said Glinda, "darkness cannot drive out darkness. Only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate...only love can do that." She looked at Atticus right into his eyes.

' _Amor vincit omnia_.'

"Love...it conquers all." Glinda smiled as she came to her conclusion. "Only an act of true love can thwart this evilness. Only an act of true love can break this curse."

Something suddenly clicked at the far back of Atticus' mind. It felt like the locks of a floodgate had been broken and everything, _every_ treasured piece of memory, suddenly burst out of the treasure chest and splashed out in a downpour.

" _A true love's kiss!"_

He remembered everything—every tale her mother had told him, every story, every lesson! It hadn't even crossed his mind that breaking the spell could be just as simple as this! Of course, what else would break an evil spell? What else would defeat the throngs of darkness? What else would bring Ian out of this misery? Of course. The answer had been so simple, now Atticus felt stupid for having overlooked it. Love!

 _Amor vincit omnia!_ Love conquers all!

It was Glinda's turn to stare at him.

Atticus, caught in the act of jumping up in victory, cleared his throat and tried to pretend that he was busy ruffling his clothes to smooth them down, looking like he suddenly didn't know what to do with himself out of sheer embarrassment.

"Right, right, an act of true love, right?" he coughed out, uncomfortably. An act of true love. Really? Did he just actually say that _aloud?_

"Yes," Glinda finished her former statement to confirm his declaration. "A true love's kiss."

"Thanks, Glinda." He looked up at Glinda as he mouthed that one thing that had been itching at the corners of his mouth ever since he realized that Glinda had even heard his prayer in the first place. He smiled tenderly as he took her young hands into his, and he looked at her sincerely in the eyes. "Thank you. For helping me save a friend."

"You are most welcome." Then, suddenly, Glinda turned her head to look up at the sky. "No one has ever done this sort of thing before, and I cannot be sure of what the future will bring to you and your friend. But that's why you're doing this in the first place—because no one ever have. In any case, you have been in here for far too long. I shall send you back to the mortal realm. It's morning already." She looked back at him, her eyes once again brightening a pansy blue like a sunlit sky, while Atticus' darkened with apprehension and panic as it dawned on him what 'morning' means.

The third day.

With one last smile, she said, "Good luck."

And Glinda disappeared in a flurry burst of white flower petals.


	13. The Dawn of the End

The sun hadn't even risen yet, but he was already wide awake. Ned Starling was a morning person. He loved this time of the day when you get to rise from the bed and then start doing things that needed to be finished. Morning was that time of the day when people opened their eyes and woke up along with the sun. An additional bonus was that mornings were calm and quiet. You get to work through projects without interruptions, and all those other pesky little things won't keep poking holes through your immaculate plans. And Ned thought that he'd been pestered by that Atticus guy well enough.

Ned was the only person in the room now. He shared this room with his brother, but his two other siblings, Sinead and Ted, had gone off to a renowned ophthalmology clinic in Pennsylvania since yesterday and won't be back until two days later. That was why he felt ever so free now that the room was only his. Not that he didn't like Ted, it was just that having a shadow following you all day long could take a break. After all, Ted usually didn't like it when Ned woke up early to do some hobbyist programming work.

But now that Ted's out of town...well, Ned's free to do what he wanted to do!

However, though, early that morning when he woke up at four am, Ned actually found himself simply staring at a blank white screen, his fingers posed over the keyboard but _nothing_ coming out of them. Gone were the usual furious clicks of typing over the keyboard, or that rush of adrenaline that pumped within him as his mind worked up the codes.

That was because that little guy Atticus Rosenbloom still _bothered_ him.

He couldn't take it out of his mind. Everything that had happened last night was stubbornly stuck to his usually genius Ekaterina brain, the memory absolutely refusing to just leave him in peace. Ned's conscience just wouldn't stop _trying_ to kill him.

" _Ah, forget it!" Ned stood up and decided that he was going to get out of here. "This is not going to work!"_

Those were the exact words he'd said last night when Atticus' so-called "magic spell" didn't work. Ned remembered stalking out of the room completely and banging the door in frustration, thinking that he'd already wasted too much his time with all this crazy hullaballoo. But just before he'd completely walked out of that room...

He caught the look of utter humiliation and defeat on Atticus' shocked face.

And he was the one who caused it.

 _Maybe I was too cruel to him last night_ , Ned's conscience told him. _I hurt the little guy's feelings. Maybe I shouldn't have yelled at him like that... Ugh. Ugh! I don't even know why I care!_

But unconsciously, he _did_ know why. Of the Starling triplets, Ned was probably the only one of them who'd gone through numerous amounts of failure before he'd gotten an invention right. His genius was genetic, but that didn't mean he didn't have to work hard to make it legit. Back when they were younger, Ned would always win third place while Sinead and Ted often competed for first whenever they signed up for a science fair. That constant failure and comparison made for a scientist who'd gotten his confidence through self-doubts.

When they were younger, whenever he posted an idea for an invention, his siblings would always say _, 'Forget it, Ned! That's not going to work!'_

Often they said that as a joke. A simple, innocent, good-natured joke.

But it had stuck to Ned through the years. It humiliated him, made him feel defeated. It was a terrible feeling.

" _Ah, forget it!" Ned stood up and decided that he was going to get out of here. "This is not going to work!"_

...and then the look of shock and humiliation crashing hard upon Atticus as Ned walked out and banged the door.

That must be why his conscience continued to bother him. It was the only rational psychoanalytic explanation. He didn't want Atticus to feel that same humiliation and defeat, because inwardly, it hurt Ned to see the little guy feeling the way he did when he was far younger, when his siblings were teasing him because of his unworkable ideas.

Ned sighed, annoyed at himself. There was only one way he could make his conscience shut up. He decided that he should probably leave the coding of his program for another morning. He was going to spend this morning to search for clues about the victims of this ridiculous 'Mystery Syndrome' if only to calm his conscience down. Maybe he would be able to come up with some useful things to help this situation...at least that way, he'd be able to make up for it to him. Atticus, the little guy.

* * *

It was half past five am in the morning. Consciousness quietly flowed into his mind to gently wake him up from sleep and remind him of a new day. The gears in his brain started coming to life as he slowly opened his eyes, shifting his head from the silky soft feather-pillows to turn and face the soft, beckoning sunlight peeking from the blinds.

Ian blinked his eyes, squinting at the mellow sunlight that softly spilled onto the room's snow white floor. There was a tang of medicines and linctus in the air, as can be expected from a hospital room. The air was cool but not piercingly so; it was quite pleasant in fact, with the early rays of sunshine shyly peeking through the darkness of the room to warmly light it up. It was still early in the morning, but from down below, as he could hear from here above, the streets are starting to get busy as early birds rose to run their daily errands just in time with the sun's rising. Aside from the faint clamour of the highways, there was also the quiet purring of the air conditioner—a soothing sound that accentuated the peacefulness.

But, strangely, it felt…different.

He hadn't heard any sort of noise, nor had anyone tapped him on the shoulder to wake him. He hadn't woken up from an urge to go to school or the bathroom; he hadn't woken up from a nightmare. It was almost as if this day were his last—because he just…woke up. Silently. Peacefully.

Was there something wrong with the world?

His eyes fell onto the girl laying her head down onto the surface of his bed, whose eyes were peacefully closed in her sleep, long lashes gently sweeping onto her rosy red cheeks. Just the mere sight of her hypnotized him and took away his breath, the serenity of the small smile playing at the edge of her lips highlighting her simple yet unrivalled beauty. She was just…amazing. She was a wildflower—someone with an unnoticed beauty unless one really peered in. Despite this, though, it was her heart that stood out. Amy Cahill was pure and innocent. There was just that kindness rooting deeply from her birth, that even if she went through the many storms that naturally accompanied her status as a Cahill, she was not overcome by the greenness of greed, or the promise of fame, or by lust of power. That natural, innocent, childlike kindness endured even through all the storms of the past. She may have changed through the years from a stuttering, insecure, naïve little girl into a blossoming lady, but she _hadn't_ changed, not even just a little.

She was just as kind and innocent as she was before.

Everyone knew the story of how the ruthless Lucian Ian Kabra had hurt and betrayed Amy Cahill for numerous times. But now? She was the one who willingly volunteered on taking care of him this night. She was the one who calmed down his demons and chased them away. Her attempts at comforting him and watching over him last night had sent his nightmares scampering away—she was the one who gave him the temporary peace that he so desperately needed. She was that one person who was willing to look beyond his past and give him another chance. She cared about people even if that particular person was seen by everyone else as a deceiving Lucian.

He frowned upon thinking that. He wasn't like that anymore, was he? He couldn't understand why Jake just couldn't let go of that _and_ hated him so much. Jake didn't even know who he was; therefore he had no right to judge him. Ian had to be amazed at Amy, though. Jake was her boyfriend, but despite that, Amy would rather stand up for Ian's defence and lash out at Jake if she had to.

Just to defend him.

And last night...

Ian didn't want to even _think_ about it. It had been most foolish of him to have let himself get carried away like that. Blast it. What was _happening_ to him? Why was he losing control? He wasn't usually like this...like _that_. The past recent days have most definitely been one of the strangest he'd ever had in his life. It was almost as if there was a powerful force that pushed him on the brink of his usually non-existent emotions. But last night, oh it was an embarrassingly melodramatic _feat_ , a shock to himself that he'd never even would've imagined himself from doing. He wasn't the type of man who foolishly gave up on the tests of life and just took away his own. He was a Lucian—he was supposed to be cold-hearted and emotionless. He wasn't, for Heavens' sake, a suicidal idiot. But last night, _just last night_ , Gideon help him, he was just about determined to _kill himself!_ It was a terrifying feeling—both terrifying _and_ revolting.

Because there was no telling he wouldn't do that again. He knew the feeling—it was terrifying, as if someone else was doing it and he was just watching himself do it from the outside. He knew himself. He would _never_ let sorrow triumph, nor let it force him to commit suicide. But last night, that feeling of distress...it overwhelmed him. And what if it happened once more? What if he lost control all over again? What if Amy wasn't there to stop him?

He let his eyes rest upon Amy in disbelief as he thought of it. If it hadn't been for her...would he be even alive? Right here, right now?

But why? _Why?_ Why was she going through these lengths to comfort him? That was one question that he would probably never get to answer. Amy Cahill wasn't supposed to care whether Ian lived or died, yet, for the past months since he'd lost his sister to those vile animals called Vespers, Amy was the one person who tried. She tried to get near him, to get him to smile, to comfort him through the hurt. He couldn't understand her. Why wasn't Amy cheering _herself_ up? She lost that Evan Tolliver guy too, but why had she showered him that kind of attention? When he'd asked that question aloud, everybody told Ian that it was because Amy was worried he'd fall into depression. And that stunned him, only bringing forth a more confusion than clarity.

Because why should she even _worry_ about him? Going through all these wouldn't give her a consolation prize—she's not doing this for an exchange of favours. She's doing this, simply because she wanted to.

But... _why?_

She was one puzzle that even Ian Kabra couldn't solve. To be perfectly fair with himself, though, it certainly was not the first time that Ian felt helpless at trying to grasp Amy's way of thinking.

Because she was just…different.

He looked down at the way that their fingers were linked, fitting ever so perfectly as if they were made to complete each other. He relished the sight of their connected hands for several more moments, letting the peace go by in the silence of the early morning.

Then, he slowly slipped his hand away from under hers ever so gently, careful not to wake her up. After his hand was free, he grabbed the IV pole beside him to support himself as he reached for the spare blanket folded neatly from the opposite drawer. Then he unfolded it, billowing it out to blanket her. It was the least he could do to return the favour for the sacrifices she had made for him, and that included her sleeping uncomfortably on the hard wooden chair with only her head resting upon his bed. So, for this morning, what he wanted was that _he_ would be the one watching over her instead.

When she should wake up, her muscles wouldn't exactly be feeling pleasant. It was the cost of falling asleep while sitting on a chair. And Ian was well aware that it was because of him, because she chose to spend the night watching over him. And even that simple little thing… was something he should be eternally grateful for. Why?

Because it was the only sort of love that he felt from someone else besides Natalie.

Her name made him pause.

_Natalie._

…suddenly, something broke through the peace. His vision cracked as if like a shattered mirror, and suddenly the world didn't look so peaceful and happy anymore—it was dark, broken, _evil_ , with demons prowling about everywhere to haunt him. A splitting headache was suddenly attacking him like a battering ram. A clamour of voices chorused inside his head that only he could hear, growing louder and louder by the second, and he had to put his hands onto his temples while shutting his eyes close as if to make it all go away, go away—just _all go away!_

" _Ian, I can't hold on much longer!" Natalie started sobbing helplessly, and Ian felt her hands starting to slowly slip away. "I can't! I can't!_ I can't! _"_

Fear settled onto the pit of his stomach with a sickening lurch.

_It was the familiar rumbling noise of a machine._

_She determinedly grabbed a discarded iron bar from the floor, the power of her fast-moving legs fuelled by immortal rage._

_She jumped into the air, throwing her metal weapon from behind to gather force, her black hair waving in the wind to accent those amber eyes that radiated of the life of the sun._

_He watched his sister, amazed at her sheer bravery, a little girl blossoming into womanhood. But then, his eyes widened, realizing what his own sister had put herself into—_

The image vanished, with Ian breathing hard, pupils shrunk into terrified pinpricks, fingers clawing at the bed sheets. He told himself to calm down. He told himself that it was just another relapse of his nightmares. He told himself that whatever it was, it was finally over—it was just some freakish vision and it would go away eventually. He closed his eyes, and inhaled, and breathed heavily. His pulse eventually calmed down, and he was thankful for the silence that once again reigned in the peaceful room. He finally opened his eyes, but instead of seeing himself in the place where he formerly was, he realized that he was back in the black void of nightmares. Before he could panic again, though, he saw a hand being offered to him.

When he looked up, his amber eyes met another pair that was vaguely identical to his own.

_Natalie?_

"Come with me, Ian."

* * *

Atticus suddenly bolted up from his bed at the sound of a rooster's morning crow, breathless.

What...had just...

_Happened?_

He turned his head to look outside to see faint, yellow streaks of sunlight spill into the room through the blinds, the cool air surrounding him an indication that it had definitely rained hard last night. He looked down beside him to stare at the digital clock—numbers that read 6:00 am.

Six am in the morning when it wasn't even a school day was something he had probably never even heard of. He was just about to shrug and get ready to get back to sleep again. He could wake at a later time. He shifted his weight on the bed, yawned, and tugged on the blankets to pull them over him. He was already getting comfortable as he let his lazy body sigh and sink in his soft, plush pillows. But when he looked down…

The cursed golden mirror was there.

He released a scream as he flung the blankets as far away from him as he could, taking the mirror with it. He heard it cling and thud against the floor, but Atticus' mind was far too disconcerted and thrown off balance to focus about measly things. He was breathless and horrified beyond his nightmares. Had the mirror been _sleeping_ with him all night long? He didn't even remember bringing that along with him! What? Then how was this even possible? If someone else (someone like Dan) put it there as a cruel prank, he supposed that it _would_ have been possible, but seeing as no one else had an actual motive to be awake this early in the morning just to pull off something like this, then this mirror _shouldn't_ even be here at all! Unless—

Wait. Hold that thought.

Unless…

" _The very reason that I haven't yet rested in peace is because my soul is still not whole._

_A part of it is trapped inside that mirror._

_And all I want is to rest in peace..."_

Glinda! Atticus snapped his eyes open as he put two and two together. Suddenly everything about this entire situation came flooding back and banged his sleepy brain awake. One of the requirements mandatory for the magic spell to work was that you need to have the person's possession. This mirror was Glinda's possession alright. Is that why he remembered some vague things about having a conversation with a ghost in his crazy dream? But there's no way that dream can be actually true...is there? It can't be true, it can't be, it's just a crazy bunch of crazy talk. A spell, broken by an act of true love? No, no, that can't be real, that kind of stuff only came from fairy-tales, for crying out lou—

Something stopped him from thinking. His eyes followed a piece of white a flower petal, floating downward through the air, and landing onto the waiting palm of his hand, as if answering all his other doubts. He stared at the lone white petal for several moments, trying to gather his jumbled thoughts to form one comprehensible sense. Then, he closed his fingers tight around the white petal.

…he grabbed his glasses, parked them onto his nose, and jumped out of bed.

* * *

Ned Starling's eyes widened as he examined his freshly gathered data.

Each and every victim of the Mystery Syndrome was reported to have died three days prior to the emergence of the symptoms. The causes of their deaths varied enough to be completely random—Miranda died of a heart attack, Yamano's plane to India crashed in the Atlantic Ocean, Calvenriala hanged himself, Witherspoon committed suicide by walking off a twelve-storey building, Niyama's weak body suffered from pneumonia, and Liana Andrés was simply found dead in her hospital bed, without any sign of complication or struggle, and, most strangely still, seemingly without any causes.

But their randomness was only on the surface. Because all of them, _without fail_ , died _three days_ after their symptoms of the Mystery Syndrome have emerged.

And all of them, _all of them_ , held a cursed golden mirror from a certain old legend in their possession.

The fact was simple: anyone who possessed a cursed mirror would suffer from the Mystery Syndrome and die on the third day.

And his cousin Ian had it.

Ned slumped back in his chair, not knowing how to take his newly obtained information. The statistics were too accurate to just let it slip by. If Ian had the Mystery Syndrome and it really did kill its victims in the most unsuspecting way possible, then Ned knew just the person to consult who could stop it from happening—

Atticus Rosenbloom.

He was probably the only guy who cared, the only one who took the effort, the only one who initiated action. Atticus Rosenbloom—well, Ned thought that the kid was actually perfect for the job. He was young enough to believe all this sort of stuff, and he was also intelligent enough to execute a most prudent course of action.

Suddenly, Ned's mouth turned into a grim slash of decision. At that moment, Ned decided that he wasn't just going to sit in his room all morning and do nothing about this entire crazy situation. Ned hated leaving problems without even putting in some effort to solve it. Life is just like math—every problem had a rational solution.

And, somehow...Ned thought that teaming up with him would be the best, most rational solution.

No matter how nutty this all was.

* * *

Atticus Rosenbloom had rushed through shower, clothing, putting on his shoes, and teeth-brushing. As he was doing so, he was lost in his own thoughts. He knew he should brace himself for some action that was inevitable to come crashing down on him today, so he made sure to wear sensible pants, a yellow tee, and Nike shoes. His mission was austerely clear, and that was to provide Ian with a true love's kiss, so that the spell would be broken and the curse would be purged and that they would all live happily ever after, the end. Ugh, Atticus can't believe he'd just thought that. But no matter—what Ian needed was just one true love's kiss, and he wouldn't die today. Piece of cake.

The billion-dollar question was this: from _whom?_

And the answer came speeding immediately into his mind. Of course. Obviously. It was none other than—

— _Amy Cahill._

Atticus certainly felt the chemistry. She was the only one who cared about him. She was the only one who fretted about him committing suicide. She was the only one who took the effort in trying to cheer him up. She was the one who wanted him to abandon the Kabra mansion and live with them here in Boston. She was the one who understood him and defended him from Jake's unrelenting remarks; she was the only one who confidently raised a hand to volunteer in taking care of him for the night in the hospital. She was the only one who genuinely, sincerely cared.

And if that wasn't true love, then Atticus didn't know what else was. If only he could manage to make them to do that kiss in Korea once again in here…if he could _just_ convince them to do it.

Ugh. He stopped himself from thinking any further, disgusted.

Great. Since when did _he_ become appointed as Amy and Ian's cupid? He didn't know how he'd just transformed from a ridiculous, spirit-calling necromancer into a disgusting, romance enthusiast overnight. He shook his head. Here comes the challenge—he needed to _make_ Amy and Ian…kiss. It all relied to him. To save the Kabra's life.

Oh, forget it! He wasn't cupid, he can't do this! Since when had love, of all things, been _Atticus Rosenbloom's_ expertise? He was just some old history genius, for crying out loud!

Unfortunately, even if he _wanted_ to forget it, there was no way to run away from this. The only way was to run _through_ the problem, and that was what Atticus Rosenbloom was determined to do. Now, as he was in the middle of drying his wet, knotty, tangled brown hair with a towel, he heard a knock from his door.

"Atticus?" It was Ned's voice. "Are you up already?"

Atticus arched a brow as he finished doing business with his hair, hanging the towel up in the rack. He wondered why Ned was here...

From the other side of the door, Ned stood. But having received no answer, he continued talking.

"Uh, hey…dude…I'm really…" Being born with Ekaterina pride, it was really hard for him to say this. But he had to, if he wanted to make a friend out of the young Rosenbloom and get his conscience to shut up and let him get even a wink of conscience-free sleep. "I'm really...sorry about last night."

There was a pause, and for a moment Ned was afraid the young kid wasn't going to answer.

But then the door opened, and from out the light was spilled.

"Really?"

Ned looked down at Atticus, who had just opened the door. The younger boy had this knowing look in his eyes, probing him to continue.

Ned sighed. He supposed that there was no backing out now. "Really, I am. I'm sorry, for, you know, walking out on you last night. But never mind that—I came here because I wanted to tell you something. And if there's something I could do to make it up to you, I would."

Atticus turned thoughtful for a moment, seriously taking his words into consideration. Then he grinned.

"You know," he said, slowly, "I _do_ need someone to drive me to the hospital…"

Ned blew out the air from his cheeks. "I knew I should have kept my mouth shut."

* * *

But as their rubber-soled feet thudded hastily against the cold, oppressive floor, Ned didn't even bother keeping his mouth shut.

"Have you gone _nuts?_ " Ned hollered with all the might his voice can carry as the two of them rushed down running through the quiet hallways of the mansion. Everybody else was asleep this early in the morning, but Ned didn't even seem to care as he tried to stick his words through the younger Rosenbloom's skull. Well, no one could blame him. Atticus had woken up at six am in the morning, he was all dressed up, even French toast couldn't entice him, and he was insisting Ned to drive him immediately to the hospital.

Atticus, the most level-headed boy in the Cahill mansion who imperturbably said 'in actuality' the whole time _,_ practically thought that the only way to break the spell was through a _true love's kiss_.

This. Was. _Crazy_.

"You don't _have_ to remind me every two seconds, Ned," Atticus said, throwing his head back to look at his Starling companion. Atticus looked like he didn't enjoy being pelted with scepticism this early in the morning. Atticus had just explained Ned his plan through the day, but the Starling boy just wouldn't shut up about how irrational everything about this situation completely was. Criticizing his plan over and over again wasn't really helping.

"But I have to make you _understand_ , smarty-pants! Smooching doesn't cure any sort of existing disease!" Ned fired back, matter-of-factly. "Lip contact would actually do the opposite—it would transfer the bacteria from the saliva of its carrier to its unsuspecting victim and _start an epidemic_. You don't want Amy catching the Mystery Syndrome, do you?"

"Saliva? Ew!" Atticus went pale out of disgust. "It doesn't _need_ to be a kiss _kiss_. It only needs to be a _true love's_ kiss. There's a difference. And, also, in actuality, the Mystery Syndrome is not some kind of common cold." Atticus countered with a slightly wavering voice, as if he was unsure of the fact but still persisted on pressing it. "Colds are caused by germs. And as far as I know, the Mystery Syndrome is not caused by germs, but, as you yourself had witnessed, by the curse of the mirror."

Ned paused, remembering that time when he had carefully taken one painful little second in touching the mirror's golden handle, and unpleasant memories started flooding in his mind. Well, he _was_ a witness of the curse, alright. But as much as that seemed logical (as logical as a cursed mirror can be) anyone who agreed with the existence of magical stuff would look like a total fool. And, as far as Ned was aware of, Ekaterinas weren't really one of those people called fools. Magic, for Ekaterinas, was science. So he frowned, threw away that magical stuff as far away from his head as he could, and started with rational reasoning again.

"But the real doctors—in case you don't know who they are, those are the scientists working in the real, live, _actual_ medical field—haven't yet reported the _real_ cause. It might not be a curse after all, all along, and this might just end up a wild goose chase. It might be a bacterium that hasn't been filed away in the scientific dictionary just yet, or an ancient virus that hasn't come alive in centuries. It can be _anything_ but a curse. And you know as well as I do that a mirror causing a disease is a brutal sign of the coming apocalypse. Okay? Curses don't exist."

Ned knew that, earlier that morning, he'd just accepted the fact that the curse _might_ actually be real—but the rational side of his mind was desperate for rational explanations.

Atticus breathed out an exhausted breath. It took him everything he had to keep his mouth shut and start blabbering about how true the curse of Tutankhamen's tomb had been to the archaeologist who dug up the pharaoh's treasures. Atticus was suddenly so stressed out of the Starling's scepticism, and they haven't even started the day yet.

"I'll do all the work, I promise," he assured. "I won't need you to do anything but drive me to the hospital where I can get a talk out of Amy and give Ian one kiss—just one, so that all this hullaballoo can end in one piece. If it doesn't work, fine. But I can't just very well do nothing. I understand that your scepticism is what keeps the nature of your mind on balance, but so much is a lot on _my_ mind right now that I can't even _start_ thinking about balance." He palmed his own forehead. "So much for being a Libra."

"Don't tell me you believe in astrology too," Ned muttered under his breath.

Atticus sighed. "Not really helping..."

They continued to run down the halls. Atticus clutched the jacket around him even tighter. The cool weather was really starting to pierce through his skin, but he was thankful for sweat—he was thankful for _movement_. He _knew_ this was crazy, but doing _something_ was actually better than doing nothing and sitting around like a barnacle. What _was_ he supposed to do, stay on his bed with the thought of having the role to save Ian in mind bothering him all day long, but doing nothing about it? This wasn't exactly the most 'rational' idea (as Ned and Jake and Dan and Phoenix and Nellie and pretty much everyone else would say) but he can't just let himself go idle.

He took a brief look at the frustrated face of the Ekaterina who ran alongside him. Atticus was thankful for Ned—however unwilling he was, he still chose to go with him. He wished that he didn't have to drag anyone else into this cursed mess. (And no, that pun was unintentional—this whole thing really _was_ a cursed mess). Regardless, he _needed_ Ned to come with him. Atticus didn't really have the money to take a taxi (he didn't even know how to call one in the first place) and he was too young to drive a car. As cynical as the Starling was, he needed someone to transport him to places—and right now it was really urgent that he went to the hospital immediately to tell Amy of the solution of this predicament. This was the third day of Ian's illness, and, knowing that all the other six people died on their designated third days, whether through natural or unexplained phenomenon as Ned had explained earlier, the possibility of Ian's death is definitely plausible. He had to hurry if he didn't want Ian to...

"Whoa, guys! What's with the rush?"

Both Ned and Atticus immediately fossilized at the sound of the voice. They silently looked at each other nervously, unsure of what to do.

"Uh, guys?" continued the voice from behind them. "You heard me, right?"

They slowly turned around to meet the curious and incisive green eyes of Jake Rosenbloom, who had just come out of the kitchen as he stirred his newly-made coffee.

"H…huh?" Atticus stupidly spluttered out. It was a pathetic attempt at trying to stall the situation, because he was trying to dig deep into his mind for possible excuses. But right now he was so driven by panic that he didn't know what to do or say—his mind was shouting, all in flustered chorus, _Not Jake! Not HIM!_ Anybody _but him!_ It was already a problem in itself on how Atticus was supposed to explain it to Amy about this whole bunch of fairy-tale kissing stuff, and Jake stuffing himself into the situation wouldn't really count as a benefit. Jake meddling into the already crazy situation would mess everything up! Jake didn't exactly already fancy Ian being in Amy's presence. What more if Atticus _encouraged_ them kissing each other?

Thinking about it made his stomach churn.

"Well, you heard me, didn't you?" asked Jake, whose green eyes started narrowing in suspicion. He stopped stirring his coffee, stepping forward a little as if to search the two suspects for the answers that were might as well written all over their foreheads. "What's with the rush? It's still so early."

Ned unfortunately failed to keep his mouth shut, completely oblivious to the tension that his younger Rosenbloom companion was emitting at the moment.

"Atticus here believes that he knows the perfect, most rational solution to stop the curse of the mirror from completely devouring Ian's soul and core of existence."

Atticus panicked; Jake became interested. "Really?" asked Jake as he arched a sceptical brow over at his younger brother. "What is this 'rational' solution? Another spell? Another voodoo magic circle thingy? Or don't tell me it's a true love's kiss this time?"

Atticus paled. "I— _I...!_ "

"Actually," the Starling casually said while raising his finger up in the air as if to inform him of some random scientific fact before Atticus can stop him. "Your last guess is actually right."

There was a nervous pause in the air.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three se—

Jake smiled in disbelief. "You're _kidding_ , right?"

But just as Ned was about to answer 'No', Atticus had already pushed himself in between the older two.

"Why, yes, of _course_ he's joking!" the younger Rosenbloom said with a tone of overplayed declaration, coughing out a nervous chuckle with slight oesophageal difficulty. "Hilarious, that was a really hilarious joke! Joke of the century! Ha-ha! Funny, right? Ned was _completely_ joking."

There must be something wrong with Atticus' voice. It was inside-out.

"Well...if that's the case..." Jake responded, "then what's this… _rational_ solution Ned just told me all about?" Jake gestured to the Ekat beside him. "And, this time, please, no more magic or true love's kisses this time. Answer me _seriously_."

And seriously Atticus did.

* * *

As he stared into the distance, Jake thought to himself that he had no idea Wal-Mart opened this early in the morning.

Eventually, after long minutes of pedalling and huffing and puffing, he entered the parking lot and finally reached his destination. He chained his bike into place but didn't bother padlocking it. He pocketed his key and casually walked into the said grocery store. The people inside were just starting to set up, and they gave Jake those familiar curious stares that were so alike to what he had received from the nurses last night when he had strolled the hospital halls. They were probably wondering what a customer was doing here this early in the morning, but Jake barely gave them a thought. His eyes were glazed over as he recalled the strange conversation he had had with Atticus a little earlier.

" _We were just going to get, er, going," Atticus stammered. He had just explained, albeit with a little more than a suspiciously shaky voice, that they were going to the attic to make another one of his 'magic spells' because he said that it was the solution they had to break this curse, yadda yadda. Many other things were said, most of which Jake didn't even understand anyway. Thinking about all those magic and wizardry thingies were making his head hurt._

" _So…yeah, that's about it," Atticus finished telling his ridiculously long story. Jake gave them a wave, telling them that they could continue doing on whatever magic stunt they had in mind. But then he paused, almost hearing his conscience—or was that Amy's voice?—inside his head, forcing him into contemplation._

' _All you ever did was think about yourself.'_

…all about yourself.

_Just when Atticus and Ned started walking away, Jake raised a hand to stop them._

" _Hey, wait!" he said. "I…I just want to ask you. What can I…" He gulped, but looked hopefully into their eyes. "What can I do to help?"_

_Ned and Atticus nervously chuckled at each other._

" _We'd…uh…need you to buy salt…?" said Atticus with a tone of uncertainty. Hmm. Suspicious._

" _Salt? Why would I need to buy…" Jake let his voice trail off. "We have plenty of salt in the house."_

" _Uh, no, no!" Atticus said, looking like he didn't know what to do with his hands as he shook them in the air in front of him. "We'd need you to…buy a special sort of salt…to…do this magic spell…it's an ingredient…I don't remember what it's called…"_

" _Monosodium glutamate?" Ned suddenly piped in._

_Both Rosenblooms stared at the Starling._

" _Ah, right!" Atticus said, looking like he just heard it right even if it was the first time he ever heard of that thing. "What he said! We need you to buy what he said!"_

" _Where in dickens do you want me to buy_ that?" _asked an incredulous Jake. "In a lab or something?"_

" _Uh, guys?" interrupted Ned. "Monosodium glutamate is a sort of seasoning, a white crystalline compound used as a food additive to enhance flavour; often used in Chinese cooking. There is no need for a scientific laboratory because it isn't bacteria that can be cultured or something, for crying out loud. It can be bought in a normal grocery store retailing of everyday needs, a.k.a., Wal-Mart."_

"Seasoning? _" Now Jake sounded even more incredulous. "You guys are going to cook something?"_

 _Atticus flashed Ned a look that suspiciously looked like a message of_ 'Not really helping.' _But Jake couldn't be entirely sure. Then, to answer Jake's question, Atticus said, "Yeah, yeah, it's a spell…to break the curse! Buy something from Wal-Mart! Oh, and take your time, okay? I don't want to, you know," he chuckled nervously, "rush you."_

" _Oooo-kay, then," Jake awkwardly said as he turned around to place his now empty cup of coffee onto the sink. "Meet you guys in the attic?"_

_But when he turned back around, Ned and Atticus weren't there—only the swinging door from which they had left._

Jake strolled through the aisles with his hands in the pockets, still a bit weirded out by that scene. He repeatedly played and played it over and over in his mind like an old cassette. Atticus was acting suspiciously, and Jake wanted to figure out what was wrong with his normally unflustered little brother. There was something fishy going on in here. He only couldn't point on _what_. After a few more moments of arduous thinking, Jake shrugged with a sigh, giving it up.

"He's probably just too excited to create this 'spell'," he mumbled to himself as he casually picked a pack of seasoning from the rack —which, indeed, said contained _monosodium glutamate_ from the label—and walked for the sleepy-looking cashier.

* * *

Ian gently let his warm hand touch her cold one as he gave it a weak squeeze, hoping to wake her up.

"Amy."

She reacted on instinct the second she heard his voice. Her eyes flew open, and, startled, began fluttering all over him like a fly. The instant reaction from the redheaded girl rather gave him a bewildered expression, him just sitting there as he let her move all around him.

"Ian!" she exclaimed, and she all but threw herself all over him. "Are you alright? Still sore? Is your fever down? How are you feeling?" She had her one hand placed over his forehead and under his bangs to check his temperature, and Ian closed his eyes, as if to relish that one moment when he felt that he was actually being cared for.

But then, his smile vanished—upon remembering the earlier events of the morning.

He clutched the sheets beside him. No. Control it. He had told himself that over and over again in the course of the last hour—he decided that the nightmares were only going to leave him if he didn't let them conquer over him. Ian Kabra was _not_ going to be a slave of sorrow. He was going to fight back, control his emotions, come out triumphant.

He closed his eyes, drew out a shuddering breath, and opened them again, this time with far more control than he'd ever exerted on himself.

"Amy," he breathed in a low voice that only she could hear as he lightly removed her hand from his forehead. As much as possible, he didn't want to speak—he felt as if his throat was even drier than the driest of deserts—but he _had_ to, if only to distract himself from the deafening noise of his own, ringing thoughts. Amy gave him a questioning look, and he replied by gesturing behind her.

"Don't worry anymore, love." He chuckled, only if to calm himself down. "I'm feeling perfectly fine today, thank you."

Amy blushed, but there was an incredulous smile on her face. "So you're back to calling me love, huh? But seriously. _Are_ you feeling fine? You're fever's gone now, but—"

Ian took her hand in his and squeezed it, amusement playing in his eyes. "Love. We have spectators."

At that, her immediate reaction was to turn around—and she saw Uncle Fiske, Dr Jinjing Liu, and a nurse giving her amused, chuckling stares.

An utterly humiliated Amy Cahill blushed intensely under their gaze.

How long have they been _standing_ there?

"Um...Uncle Fiske! D-D-Doctor! Hello, g-good _morning!_ " That last part came out as more of a pathetic squeak, and when the nurse coughed out a giggle at that, Amy knew that she was just being plain _pathetic_. Gideon, Amy was surprised she was even able to manage that much. "Um...uh...what b-b- _brings_ you here, doctor? Do you have news?"

Dr Jinjing Liu smiled kindly at her. "I've taken care of the papers. It is time for us to move young Ian to London now."

Amy looked, wide-eyed, over to Uncle Fiske—who was nodding at her, affirming the doctor's statement.

"We need to leave as soon as possible."

* * *

"I can't _believe_ you actually convinced Jake that we're going to make another spell," Ned muttered under his breath, looking sideways to give Atticus a pointed gaze as he calmly spun the steering wheel to drift the car at two and ten o'clock, where they sped off onto the straight road. There was already a light traffic, beeping car noises dominating the highway despite it being early morning, but they had to thank whatever gods there were up there that the traffic was still quite manageable.

Emphasis on 'quite'.

"Hey, watch it, look out!" Atticus suddenly shouted, and when Ned returned his eyes back on the road, he saw that the green light of the stoplight suddenly burned red, and that he needed to stop unless they wanted to get almost mauled again by a truck. He stepped on the brakes ever so harshly, launching both of the car's passengers forward with a violent thrust. Ned let out a nervous chuckle when he saw a traffic policeman from a distance glare angrily at him.

Atticus pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he leaned back onto his seat. "Nice driving skills," he said, sarcastically.

"Why thank you, I am pleasantly flattered," Ned returned, ever so sweetly, " _expert_."

Atticus stood up for his own defence. "I am eleven years old and therefore not yet eligible to have a driver's licence!"

Ned made a scoffing sound. "Whatever."

When they eventually made it to the hospital, Atticus and Ned immediately scrambled out of their car and burst through the hospital's glass doors. They approached the receptionist at her table, while they had a little difficulty at trying to catch their breaths from suddenly pumping their lugs that much after a long seat in their car.

"Name?" asked the receptionist, monotonously. She didn't even spare them a look, as her hands were already poised on typing onto her keyboard, eyes focused on the screen.

"Ian Kabra, ma'am," Atticus said, still a bit breathy.

"Ian Kabra, hmm?" the receptionist repeated slowly, as if deliberately savouring the name in her tongue. She typed up the letters in her keyboard and pressed 'Enter', acting as if she didn't already know who this Ian Kabra was. Oh, _please_. Atticus rolled his eyes at this. It was impossible she didn't know who Ian was—he was the seventh of the few victims of the dreaded Mystery Syndrome, for crying out loud! Ian was especially given special reception when he was confined here!

"Ah, he's not here anymore," the receptionist finally said after forever when she turned away from the computer to face them.

"What?!" Atticus nearly blew his head off. Suddenly, he was expecting the worse... "What do you mean, he's not here anymore?!"

The receptionist remained calm. "I am deeply sorry to say this, but you just missed them. He was under the supervision of Dr Liu."

Atticus knew that he should be relieved it's not anything worse, but they certainly didn't need more complications. Ugh! Why can't anything _ever_ be easy? Atticus suddenly looked like he was trying to bite the lady's head off when he threw himself at her desk, imploring her, _begging_ her—

"We just _missed_ them? What do you mean?! Where on Earth are they? _Answer me!_ "

The receptionist's words sounded like a ghost's whisper in Atticus' ears.

"They're on a flight to London."


	14. The Curse Completes Its Course

They immediately stuffed themselves into Ned's gray little car. Ned jabbed in his keys, turned the ignition, pulled on the throttle, and before long, the engine was sputtering into life—and out they flew into the air to hit the road.

All the while, Atticus was searching in Ned's list of contacts. He was scrolling through them, until he found the name he was looking for—Cahill, A. Immediately, Atticus tapped on the phone, dialed it, and put it on his ear.

"Amy…Amy? Hey, Amy, do you hear— _gah!_ " The car suddenly hit a bump in the road that sent the lone passenger springing into the air and then fumbling for the phone. Once Atticus had the phone safely in his eyes, he breathed out a sigh of relief—but then the relief was immediately overcome by nervous tension. He whipped his head around to look at the teen driver, aggravation shining bright in his suddenly sharply-angled eyes.

 _"Ned!"_ cried out Atticus. They wanted to get to the airport fast before Amy and Ian's flight took off—but they had to make sure that they got there in one piece _first_. "Please do be careful!"

Ned groaned as he steered the wheel at nine and three o'clock. "I _warned_ you, didn't I? I'm not a good driver!"

"Whatever! Just get us to the airport!"

 _"Hey!"_ Suddenly the two boys heard the shouting of the traffic policemen from behind them, who'd just spotted the car driving past the speed limit. "Hey, you in the gray car! _Stop!_ "

There was an expression of 'oops…yikes' on Ned's face as his muscles tensed and he only stepped harder onto the pedal to accelerate the car. Atticus, meanwhile, looked behind them and saw three traffic officers mounting their huge monster motorcycles and began to gain on them. Atticus groaned. A car chase. Really. What is it with life complicating things when things are already complicated?

_"Police! Stop in the name of the law!"_

"Oh boy," Atticus said as he rolled his eyes. "Here we go."

* * *

Amy picked up her ringing phone and put it on her ear. "Hey…Atticus? Atticus, is that you? What's up?"

There was no response from the other line, but there were definitely voices. A background noise that was enough cause for worry. Amy suddenly felt weird. Why did she hear someone yelling…a policeman, maybe?...from the other side of the line?

"Atticus, what's going on there? Are you at home? Why do I hear sirens?" Then Amy blinked in panic as her sleep-deprived imagination suddenly cooked up something very crazy—but plausible. She gasped and put a hand onto her mouth. "Oh, no! _What did Dan do now?_ "

"Sheesh, relax, Amy!" said Atticus from the other line, finally having been able to get through his panic to speak—though there was barely calm in his voice. He sounded flustered, even though he was obviously doing a desperate attempt at calming his shaking voice down. "Just...just relax, we're fine, we're fine. We're going to the airport to meet you there!"

Amy did a double-take. _Huh?_ She hadn't yet informed anyone from the house about her departing from America this morning—she intended to do it a little later, and she didn't expect anyone to know about it beforehand. So why... _how_ did Atticus know she was at the airport? But then her attention was quickly diverted to something else once Atticus' statement sank in to her mind.

"What? _We?_ What do you mean _we?_ Who's with you?"

_"I'm with Ned!"_

"What? Why? Are you in a car right now?"

"Um…yes, yes! But we've got no time to expla—ugh, gah! Ned, _slow down!_ "

Amy suddenly sensed the urgency in his words, and this fired alarm through her nerves. And, she didn't know if it was just her, but she seemed to hear some faint shouting from the background…was her mind making this up, or did she _really_ hear them? Because suddenly she could imagine a very dastardly scene happening from the other side of the line. A...car chase, perhaps?

"Whoa, _wait_ ," Amy said when she finally got a hold of her wild imagination. It wasn't just her imagination—she _definitely_ heard it! "What's wrong? Is it just me, but are you being chased? By the _police?_ "

"No, no! Th-that's just you, don't worry about anything!" But for some reason, Amy doubted it. She definitely heard the little stammer in Atticus' voice and absolutely knew that he was lying. Stammering happened to her often, and she knew that other people did that too when they were not saying the absolute truth.

"Hey, Atticus…" Amy began, intending for it to sound stern, but failing—it came out worried, strangled. Before she could go on any further, though, she was immediately cut off.

"Look, Amy," started the boy, "I called because I have something to say to you, real quick. _Ian's under a curse!_ Everyone who had the Mystery Syndrome is under a curse! That's why they always died on the third day without fail, Amy! And if we don't do something, Ian's going to be next! That's why he'd need an act of true love to break the spell— _a true love's kiss!_ "

"Huh? _What?_ Atticus, I can't hear you. You're breaking up—"

"I'll explain everything to you in person when we get there!"

"Wait, do we _have_ to wait for you? But our flight! We already need to—"

* * *

"Just wait for us there! Okay? _Wait for us there!"_ Atticus kept on shouting in Ned's phone. But when he noticed that there was no response from the other line… "Amy! Amy…? Argh!" Atticus grunted his frustration when he saw that the line was dead. " _Ned!_ The signal broke!"

Ned steered the wheel onto the hard right and pressed on the accelerator. "I know, right? Duh, _obviously_. We just went through a tunnel!"

And then that's when Atticus noticed that everything had been plunged into darkness, with only very minimal illumination that spilled from the two outer sides of the tunnel. The young boy climbed onto his seat and looked behind him to see the light from the other side of the tunnel intensifying the shadows of their gaining pursuers. Police on their motorcycles. Atticus gulped, and then looked at the driver in front of him. That's when he noticed that Ned was probably going at seven hundred thousand miles per hour—and that he was targeting to go through a very narrow gap in the highway.

"Ned…" Atticus began, panic in his voice. It was obvious from the dogged slash of grim determination in Ned's mouth that he was really going to do it. His fists were tight around the steering wheel, but they didn't sweat or even tremble from apprehension—Ned's mind was decided. He pressed harder onto the accelerator, Atticus felt like the car would soon be breaking the sound barrier now. There was suddenly the faint smell of rubber in the air as the wheels sparked friction against the asphalt pavement.

Atticus felt his heart pounding as their car neared dangerously towards the gap between the two cars ahead of them. No. What was Ned _thinking?_ He's not thinking straight! They're _not_ going to fit through that gap—they _couldn't!_ It was too small, and the gap was getting smaller and smaller as the two cars sped on! They're going to crash, and they're going to die in a car accident! No, it can't be happening! Atticus didn't want to die in the middle of this all!

 _"NED!"_ Atticus couldn't help the screaming now as he gripped tight onto the ridges of the car windows and sunk himself lower into his seat as if that would help save his life. Seatbelts are going to be of no use in a situation like this. "Whatever it is you're planning, _stop it right now!"_

Ned grinned and pulled harder onto the throttle. He hadn't had this much of a thrill since the car chase on the beginning of the Clue Hunt—sure, he had unpleasant memories that day on the Franklin Institute—but the excitement he felt right now was so gratifying to be mulling over danger. But, what danger? Ned knew what he was doing.

He smirked. _"Just hold on tight!"_

Atticus screamed. Ned was really going to dare DO it! The foolish Ekat! They were going to die, they were going to die, they were going to—

As Ned pulled onto throttle, their little vehicle sped even faster—and Atticus watched in horrified amazement as the whole world suddenly began to move in slow motion…until their little car went through the little gap between the two other cars, barely grazing the pristine, newly painted golden surface of that one expensive van. And soon, their mini vehicle emerged right out of the darkness of the tunnel and out into the light of the day, its driver triumphant and its lone passenger nearly white with terror and the realization that he had, in actuality, just barely grazed death's door.

But as the car went on, Ned made sure that they zipped past a muddy puddle left after yesterday's rain—making mud splash all over the windshields of the two other cars behind them, leaving filth and sludge right in their wake. The gap between those two said cars was now too small for the police in their motorcycles to get through, stranding them right then and there. The drivers of those cars burst out in outrageous indignation, but due to their muddy windshields, they could not catch sight of the vile perpetrator who dared splash mud onto their new cars. It only frustrated them because they didn't catch the colour of the car, the plate number, much less the smirking face of Ned Starling. Plus they wouldn't be able to serve as useful witnesses to the traffic police—who, no matter what they did, had now lost trail of their target.

That was because the gray car had already vanished among the steady traffic, moving at a steady pace, flowing along everyone else as if nothing ever happened.

Atticus' heart was still pounding like crazy, but when he looked back and saw that the traffic policemen were helplessly stranded and mauled over by demands and questions from the outrageous drivers who commanded to have their perpetrator found and put to jail, Atticus knew that they were safe from the policemen now.

"How… _how_ did you know we're going to _fit?"_ Atticus demanded, fear still evident in his voice—even though the amazement was clearly there. "I didn't know it was the Ekaterina style to take risks like that!"

"Take _risks?_ Oh, no, no, no." Ned shook his head, though there was a grin on his face. "The Tomases are the daredevils of the family—the Ekats are the geniuses. We _never_ take risks."

Atticus scoffed. "Right."

Ned tapped his temple. "The power of physics, Atticus." He said it in such a way that made you think like he was opening the mysteries of life to the young boy. "I calculated the approximate distance between the two cars and compared the length of the car we're in to the difference of the former. The gap had barely an inch allowance, but we got through it. Simple."

"You nearly _killed_ me. You didn't have to go _that_ fast, though, didn't you?"

Ned rolled his eyes as if that was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. "Silly. Of course I had to go that fast! Those two cars were closing the gap in between them at a rate of two-point-five inches per second, and after a little math, I knew that I had to go at approximately one-oh-five metres per second if I wanted to get through the gap in time before it was too small for us to fit. It was our only hope to lose those policemen, you see. Behold, the science of speed and velocity."

Atticus just gaped at Ned, the crooked glasses on his nose making him look like a shaken nerd who'd just been mind-blown by the facts of the universe.

"Ned…that…that was actually…"

"Nice driving skills?" Ned offered with a smirk.

"Nope," Atticus grinned at him. " _Genius_ driving skills."

* * *

"But our _flight!_ We already need to _go!_ " But then, when only silence greeted her back from the other side of the line… "Wait. Atticus? Atticus, are you there? Can you hear—"

_Beep! Beep! Beep!_

Amy suddenly jerked her phone a little away from her ear, cringing from the sharp, loud beeping of her Apple phone. Then she looked at the broad LED screen in disappointment. No signal. The line had broken up.

What was _that_ all about?

Amy sighed. She really needed to get some sleep. It was certainly not fun to have been woken up early in the morning and then forced out of bed because some doctor told you that you needed to go to London immediately. They weren't flying commercial—they were flying a charter plane lent by Dr Liu's associates from England, because, after all, they wanted their patient to get there as quickly and safely as possible. However, though, since they were using the public airport, they had to go through the usual—security, luggage check, basically waiting in line with everyone else. The adults—Uncle Fiske and Dr Liu—were taking care of some papers for the moment, while Amy and Ian, along with many other everyday commuters with scheduled flights today, sat waiting as everyone else went on their busy lives.

Then Amy suddenly noticed him holding his head with two fingers, as if repressing some sort of headache.

"Hey…Ian?" There was worry in her eyes, and Amy put a hand onto his shoulder to let him know she was there. "Is there something wrong?"

He didn't move an inch, but he sighed tolerantly. "No, no, I'm fine, I'm fine…"

"You don't look fine. You look _pale_." Amy edged to the side of her seat to inch nearer to him. "Tell me, are you alright?"

Ian took a look at Amy's green eyes that probed concernedly into his own, and suddenly Ian felt uncomfortable of their proximity. He quickly turned his head to the side and cleared his throat, the distance of their faces clearly a discomfort. "Ah...of course, well. I am alright."

Amy blushed and then inched away from him, suddenly aware of how close they were. She cleared her throat too, though she did it a lot less smoothly and definitely a lot more awkwardly than Ian. "Um…okay. But are you sure you're alright…?"

"Yes. It's just that…" Ian leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, then buried his face into his hands. And then the masks fell off. "I feel tired. This is not like me."

If it weren't for the dire situation, Amy probably would have rolled her eyes at that. Right. Of course this was not like him. Because _usually_ was Ian complaining how plain and crowded and loud and unsophisticated this whole place was. _Usually_ was Ian whining about the measly lives of the normal people. _Usually_ was Ian grumbling about how everything in here was low-class and how the seats weren't even plush chairs. _Usually_ was Ian complaining about how the people here looked like they'd slept in their 'poor excuses of clothing' and how the janitors were doing poorly at their jobs because he spotted a speck of dust on the floor.

And usually, _usually_ Amy would be so annoyed and tell him to just deal with the fact that this was how normal people get on with their everyday lives and then make him just shut up about it.

But now…she sighed. Amy weirdly felt like missing the old Ian. The old Ian who was a pain. The old Ian who always complained. The old Ian who had first class demands for refinement and sophistication, the one who always smirked and looked like he was so full of himself.

Amy spared a thoughtful glance at the tired teen beside her, and she felt her stomach clench just at the sight of him like that. Physically tired and exhausted of life.

_Anything but this._

"Um…of course you feel tired. It's just normal," she agreed, perhaps just to keep their conversation going. "You had fever yesterday, remember? We have Dr Liu to blame for dragging you out of bed when you need to rest, but well, there's no help for it." Amy checked his forehead with her palm to check his temperature in the traditional method, and when she didn't feel his skin soaring forty degrees Celsius like it had last night, she breathed out a sigh of relief. "Thank goodness your fever isn't relapsing."

"Yes. Thank goodness indeed," he agreed. He removed her hand from his forehead and then looked at her. "Pardon me, Amy, but I think…I need to go for a while." He stood up.

"What?" Amy said, alerted suddenly. "Where?"

"Don't worry, I'll…I'll be back shortly." He'd turned and was already walking away.

"Wait, Ian!" said Amy, truly concerned now. "Are you _really_ sure you're alright? You don't need my help or anything? Because if you do, I'd happily—"

He gave her a dismissive wave. "I can handle myself."

And then after that, Amy was left sitting alone. She watched as Ian disappeared into the crowd, having no idea where he was going. Probably the comfort room? Well, she guessed she was left with no choice but wait alone here. With Ian now gone, Amy was left staring at her phone—and when she did, she was suddenly reminded of her call with Atticus. She turned the screen back on, and it came alive, showing the list of missed calls the today and the recent week. The call from Atticus, it seemed, came from an unknown number, but she was certain that it was Atticus on the other line.

It made her wonder. What was wrong with him? What was Atticus _talking_ about?

_A curse…and a true love's kiss?_

Or maybe she just heard him wrong. Yes, that's it. As Amy mulled over it, yes, she thought, that that line of reasoning was actually highly plausible. Their conversation had been full of nothing but static in between, anyway, what with the unstable signal going on between them. Plus, there was some sort of noise coming from the outside, the sort of rumbling and grumbling noise you hear in a construction site, that didn't help much for her hearing abilities.

Amy knew that she should probably worry over what Atticus was really up to now, but her concern for the moment was actually on Jake—she hadn't yet told him about her flying to London with Ian, and she figured that now was good a time to do so while she still had the chance. The impromptu flight was so spontaneous that, in the entire morning since Amy woke up, she hadn't had even any time to say good morning to her boyfriend.

She had Jake's number on speed dial. So she wasted no more time—she tapped on her phone and immediately, and it began to ring.

* * *

Jake was still thinking about that suspicious conversation he had with Atticus just lately.

It bothered him why Atticus looked…panicked…once he mentioned that thing about the…well…

_"What is this 'rational' solution? Another spell? Another voodoo magic circle thingy? Or don't tell me it's a true love's kiss this time?"_

Jake sighed. Unless he could talk to Atticus right now and ask him the necessary questions, there was no way he could calm his raging suspicions down. So then Jake figured that he should just stop thinking about it lest he wanted to stress his brain out any further.

He had just stepped out of Wal-Mart, clutching the paper bag in one arm. He knew that he just needed to buy the special salt that Atticus wanted, but Jake had also taken the liberty of buying some chips and apples while he had the chance. He just went through the store's glass doors and he began to approach his bike, each step accompanied by the rustle of the contents inside his paper bag. Just as he was about to put his paper bag on the bike's basket, though, he felt a vibration in his pocket. He fished out his phone and then saw that the caller ID was…hm. Curious.

_Amy?_

* * *

"Jake?"

"Ames! You called!" Jake put his groceries in the basket of his bike, and then transferred his phone from one hand to the other to be more comfortable. "Is there something wrong going on in the hospital? Or…" He stiffened when he suddenly felt something fire through his nerves. "Is Ian okay...?"

Hm. Unusual. Suddenly he actually felt _something_ for Ian—something akin to worry, alarm, or perhaps reluctant concern— _very_ reluctant, but concern nonetheless. This new feeling that surged upon him felt quite unusual, like the wind passing by was sending him a message of foreboding.

"Oh, no, no, nothing's wrong," came Amy's lighthearted response from the other side of the line, which immediately put Jake out of his distress…but only temporarily. "And yes, Ian's okay. I guess..." she added, as if uncertain of her own conclusions. However, she shook that moment away as quickly as it came with a firm, "But look. I'm not at the hospital right now, I'm at the airport."

Jake's eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. "What? The _airport?_ Why? Where are you going?"

"Dr Liu said it last night, right? He'd just finished the papers, and now I'm going to London with Ian."

"What? _London?_ " Now the shock came pouring right out of his voice. "Right…right _now?_ But why didn't you tell me?"

Amy's exasperated sigh came out as a crackle of static from Jake's phone. "That's why I'm calling you, doofus." From the other side, Amy rolled her eyes good-naturedly, always too happy to enjoy her little conversations with her boyfriend. "What is wrong with the people today? First there's Atticus, and there's you, and then there's Uncle Fiske, and then there's _—_ "

Jake halted her in mid-rant. "Wait. Atticus? You saw him _already_ today?"

 _But that's impossible_ , mused the bewildered Rosenbloom. _Atticus...he's at home!_

…right?

"No, no," said Amy, answering Jake's previous question as to whether she'd seen Atticus today or not. "No, actually, I didn't _see_ him—he just called. He told me he's going to the airport right now to meet me or something…I didn't really catch everything he said, but that's the root of it."

That little news sent him flying away from shock and then landing hard right onto confusion. "He's going to the airport to meet _you?_ " asked Jake incredulously. "But why? Did he tell you anything else?"

Well, wasn't that just _suspicious._ What was so important that Atticus would just rush to meet Amy Cahill this early? Could that be why his brother was in such rush when he ran into him this morning?

But…but that can't be. Atticus told him he's going to do some voodoo magic spell this morning. He didn't say anything about meeting Amy in the airport. Atticus wouldn't lie to him. Certainly not.

_...would he?_

"I…well," began Amy, uncertain what to say. "I didn't hear him exactly, but, it was ridiculous. You should've heard it. He was telling me something like…breaking this curse and saving Ian by giving him a true love's kiss." Jake could hear Amy's exhaustion even though she was far away—the tiredness was in her voice, hidden underneath her words. "Ugh. My mind must be making up all of these things. Sleep deprivation and all…."

For a moment, his boyfriend just nodded along, as if everything Amy said made sense, and Jake sympathized with her bearings. But once his thought processes suddenly stumbled across something that didn't quite fit, Jake nearly felt his head explode.

"Whoa-whoa-whoa WAIT. _What_ did you just say?" There was nothing but the pure unease of an apprehensive demand in his voice. "A true love's _kiss?_ "

_"What is this 'rational' solution? Another spell? Another voodoo magic circle thingy? Or don't tell me it's a true love's kiss this time?"_

The girl sighed exhaustedly. "I know, right? I really need to get some sleep soon…"

"Amy," said the Rosenbloom, disregarding her statements by ploughing forward with more questions, his voice with an edge. A rough edge. Slowly, the pieces came at hand. "Was…was Atticus with someone? Was he with Ned?"

"Why, yes. But how did you…?"

But Jake was too horrified to register any of her words anymore. His eyes widened, because, suddenly, no matter how crazy this whole situation was, he knew the implications of everything. His mind was one, clear, straight blank—there only remained one train of thought that might as well have been the flatlining heartbeat on a monitor. Atticus didn't really want to make a voodoo spell—what he wanted was a true love's kiss.

And he had distracted him, _lied_ to him, told him to buy salt even if he didn't need it, all so that Jake would be _out of the way._

And it hurt. The feeling of betrayal constricted his neck and throat and stomach so tight that he would've choked on his words hadn't he caught himself on time. "I'm…" And suddenly, his mind was decided. "I'm going to go there."

"What? But _Jake—_ "

He'd already hung up.

Jake had wanted to ask more. He honestly didn't even want to believe all this 'true love's kiss' hullaballoo going on in the first place, but rage and jealousy was already simmering from deep inside of him and he had no time to dillydally, for goodness' sake. He immediately jumped onto his bike, stroked the pedals backward to gain momentum, and off he sped onto the road—determined to pedal all the way to the airport, his fingers clenched tight onto the handles.

He understood the main aspect of Atticus' plan now. Atticus was going to go there to the airport and break the curse by instructing Amy and Ian to engage in an _act of true love_ , and Jake was pushed away because he was a hindrance. A _hindrance_.

He couldn't believe it. He had been good enough, hadn't he? He'd genuinely wished Ian well. He'd apologized to those whom he had wronged. Jake had held himself back and told himself that he needed to give Ian another chance. He couldn't help thinking back and remembering how much he meant it when he said that he _really_ wanted to be of help—that he sincerely _did_ want Ian to overcome this thing. But after all that, this is how the universe pays him back? Did his change of heart mean _nothing_ at all?

So, then, he thought _this_ was how it must work from now on. Maybe Jake had a right to be angry now. Maybe Jake was now allowed to let his true feelings show. Maybe Jake wasn't really the bad guy who wanted all the attention—maybe he was just the guy got hurt because of being ignored. Jake was betrayed, _lied_ to by Atticus, his own brother, all just because of that…that _snake!_ Well, sure, Atticus meant good to probably save that Cobra's already damned life, but did that still matter when it involved breaking brotherly bonds and shattering them into pieces?

This wasn't a matter of stealing girlfriends anymore. This was a matter of _stealing his brother_. Jake didn't even want to think about it. He knew that this entire thing was ridiculous, but with the rage, almost animalistic, _primitive_ , boiling in every inch of his body, there was no room for scepticism. He'd given too much room for Ian to interfere between him and Amy, and look what it got Jake—he got pushed aside, ignored, and he ended up being looked at by everyone else as That Selfish Jerk with his profound _shallowness_. But, was he really the selfish one here? Or was it _him_ who was lacking? Yes, he'd been pushed away by Amy for long enough ever since the Cobra showed up and lived in the manor. Jake tolerated that. He may have lacked the grace, but he tolerated that.

But being pushed away by _his own brother?_

Atticus had told him to buy salt because he wanted to distract him from the real purpose. Atticus didn't _want_ a magic spell to happen; he wanted a _true love's kiss_ to happen, for goodness' sake. And because of that, because _Ian_ was at the top of the priority list now, the _real_ purpose of Atticus could only be…

He wanted to push Jake away.

_All because of Ian Kabra._

Enough of this. Enough of this all! Jake was jealous of Ian, and the third-party Cobra had done enough. He'd stolen his Amy, his girlfriend—and now he'd just stolen his Atticus, his brother. How dare he.

_How dare he!_

Jake wouldn't stand for this anymore! Ian, of all people, should know how it must feel to lose a sibling—and now he's claiming Atticus _all for himself?_ Jake knew that this was probably shallow, and that his thoughts were being drowned in a sea of _superficiality_ , but for the death of him, he didn't _care_ about what other people thought, because _no one_ cared about his own. The Rosenbloom grunted with every pedal as his legs beat to make the wheels strike fire onto the highway's cemented pavement. He couldn't help the rage, the jealousy, the feeling of being betrayed—and it shone in his eyes, like the onslaught of tears, festering just underneath those layers of self-control and preservation, all bubbling in a cauldron of seething resentment.

So. Atticus wanted to keep him out of this situation?

Too bad, then. Jake steered the handle posts to the hard right and pedalled right through the narrow spaces of the traffic, determined to get there for all of them to see.

That he wouldn't miss this for the world.

* * *

The science of physics may have successfully gotten them out of that sticky car chase, but now he didn't think it would ever be able to them get out of this even stickier jam.

"The _traffic_." Ned slumped back in his seat¸ frustrated that they hadn't even moved an inch for a whole hour. It may have only been minutes, but with the tension on their shoulders, every second of waiting felt like forever. "Atticus, we couldn't make it in time!"

The boy looked pensive for a moment, his eyes surrounded by skin that was creased in thought. Indeed, what with the traffic outside, they wouldn't be able to make it to the airport in time before their flight to London. Considering they weren't particularly in a leisurely state of affairs, they would never be able to make it.

_At least not by car..._

"Hey, Ned, I've got an idea. How about we make it there by foot?"

There had been a bit of an argument. Ned reasoned that his car might get towed away and and that his license is going to get confiscated for sure, but, soon, he'd been persuaded by the persistent little Rosenbloom to park their car onto some free lot by the sidewalk. And then, in no time, their sneakers were already pounding onto the pavement as they sprinted their way towards their nearing destination. The drivers inside the cars just looked at the two kids in amazement, those two kids who chose to actually move than sit around and do nothing and just wait for something to happen.

But as Atticus ran, he didn't pay any of their amazed looks any mind—because he was already too gripped to reach one goal.

_Just hold on, Ian. Hold on._

* * *

Ian held on to his consciousness as if for dear life.

Yes. Definitely for dear life.

Everything around him was swirling and the edges of his vision were turning black. It was a battle for consciousness, to stay alive, _to remain in command_. No, he most certainly _cannot_ fall victim to this deathly beast, this _curse_ ; he must fight, and he _will_ send the Grim Reaper scampering away. The crowd was nothing to him but like a sea where he struggled to stay afloat; and the noise they made, their chatter, their laughter, their discussion of everyday affairs, they were all nothing but a distant, garbled nonsense far out of his reach.

He'd run from Amy and his kindly Uncle Fiske as far away from them as possible, not wanting to worry either of them by pretending he felt fine. He'd run from them so that he could dispatch his bothersome troubles by himself. But now he was starting to regret that. He suddenly felt so exhausted, like the life was getting drained out of him at the tick of each excruciating second. He'd been suffering from this peculiarly painful sensation ever since he'd woken up back at that nightmarish hospital room, a sensation like the strength he had left was getting sapped out of his core, but back then he'd still had enough to spare for himself to be able to grasp control. He still had the determination not to let anything conquer over his body and mind, for his body and mind are only his own.

But now, things were growing frighteningly different. Ian struggled to find the wall amidst the sea of chattering travellers, and once he finally located it, his palm touched the wall and he then leaned into it with his entire body. He willed his body to continue standing, standing with the strength he didn't have—or have lost. With his other hand, he simply touched his temples with two fingers, thinking that perhaps a little pressure might alleviate the pain. He drew in a shuddering breath.

Some people may have noticed the well-dressed boy leaning onto the wall, but everyone just simply walked past like they've seen nothing. It was a busy world and they had no time for such a trifle, and Ian didn't mind it too much—actually, he was just too glad that no one chose to acknowledge him. This was fairly mortifying, but his mind simply had no room for shame. It was now taking every drop of his willpower and determination to stay afloat above the thick black water that suffocated him. He couldn't let this nightmare control him. He couldn't. He couldn't lose control again, or else he just might…

Something rang sharply into his ears to interrupt that thought and Ian cringed painfully at that, barely containing an agonized scream. His face was pale, breathless—suddenly looking like he'd just thrown up, or was punched in the stomach, even though neither of those even happened. The ringing in his ears grew louder and louder, and suddenly he couldn't take it anymore. Ian pushed through the protesting crowd, covering his head with an arm while he faced the ground, running through the masses without a care who he hurt—it even went to the point where he had to push a little girl out of the way so she stumbled, fell, and cried, with her parents shouting after Ian vehemently and demanding for an apology. But he didn't care. All he wanted was to get away from all this noise. His chest felt tight, his breaths were coming in shorter and faster, and the ringing in his ears were grilling him past the point of painful.

...maybe it was because he hadn't had his morning tea?

He didn't, however, have the time or the brainpower to mull over that. The ringing was growing louder, and louder, and _louder_ —he felt like his head was going to explode over the internal tension. The crowd wasn't aware of the sixteen-year-old's distress, no, not _really_. Because to them, he was just another man, another traveler just like them—though with his formal clothes, it was easy to mistake him for an actual businessman hurrying to catch his flight schedule.

Ian finally found the door to the comfort room and he hastily stepped in. He shut the door tight and he stayed like that until he found his breath. He leaned onto the door, and, relieved he was now out of sight, he faced the ceiling with a calming sigh, his eyes closed in a moment of quiet.

Then he stood up straight on his own two feet, not anymore leaning on the door. Ian walked across the white-tiled floor, each step an ominous echo throughout his empty surroundings. His mind was in too much of a disarray for him to be acknowledging that the men's room was actually quite well-kept, and that the small, lovely vase at the side was something worthy of a praise. Ian went over to the sink, and leaned into it, and then looked at himself in the mirror.

Never had he thought that doing so would bring him so much horror. His eyes, his amber eyes, they were...tired. The faint circles below them were a clear testimony of what he'd been through the past two days. But it was not _just_ his eyes.

It was himself.

"What? What _is_ it?" He looked deep into his reflection, asking himself aloud, his mere voice alone begging a desperate answer. "What is _wrong_ with me?"

An amused, ethereal giggle filled the air, and suddenly there was the scent of death. And then…

A response.

_Everything, Ian Kabra. Everything._

To his utter horror, his reflection morphed, the surface of the mirror rippling like the troubled surface of the water, until his very image changed into that of someone familiar—the face of the waitress he had met back at that coffee shop, the face of the deity that began it all.

… _Urd?_

Ian took a horrified step back. No. _No_. It can't be…

Urd merely smiled. A frightening smile.

 _Yes_ , she spoke. _Everything_.

Ian watched in horror as the image began to reach her hands out and gently broke through the surface of the mirror—reaching out to him as if to grab him and pull him with her to the depths of despair.

_Everything is wrong…_

Once her cold, skeletal hands made contact with his skin, Ian recoiled sharply, stepped backward, and _screamed_ , perhaps for the first time in a long time in his sophisticated life—

" _No!_ Leave me _be!"_

And then there was an explosion of shards of glass and mirrors when a breathless, terrified Ian hurled the vase at her.

He remained that way for several seconds, his arm still outstretched in the throw, his chest heaving, his eyes in a panic, panting as he stood in his fear.

The door opened and in peeked Fiske, who had intentionally went here to use the toilet, but was instead shocked at the sight of his winded nephew, standing in the middle of such a mess. The shards of the vase were still all over the floor, and the mirror over the sink had a huge crack right in the middle.

Fiske was stumped in immediate worry and quickly approached him. "Ian, child! What happened to you? What's wrong?"

But there was a haze of delusion over his pinprick pupils, reminiscent of the time he'd been calling out for a certain 'Natalie' who didn't exist, yesterday at the Cahill Manor backyard.

Fiske felt a certain chill ride up his spine as those deranged amber eyes met his.

" _Father?_ Is that...you?"

Ian Kabra had finally lost control.

* * *

While the two of them stopped to catch their breath, Atticus took the small opportunity to call Amy once more. Atticus borrowed Ned's phone again for a moment and dialled Cahill, A. He wasted no time telling her that he and Ned were about to arrive, and that she and Ian should have to wait for them where the two parties could easily meet each other. Somewhere outside the perimeters of the airport, perhaps—or someplace where Ned and Atticus would be able to see them easily without having to scour the whole airport for goodness' sake. Atticus, after all, wanted his plan to go on as smoothly as possible, away from other factors which may destroy the entire scheme. He expected Amy to know that the consequences are dire, and that she shall have follow all instructions without question.

But, to Atticus' surprise, Amy demurred.

"You and Ned want to meet _me_ and _Ian?"_ she asked, the incredulity clear in her voice. "We can't. Ian's already on the plane now. It wouldn't take us more than fifteen minutes before takeoff! I can't just postpone the flight for you if it isn't for valid reasons, Atticus!"

" _What?_ " Last time Atticus heard, Amy and the rest of them were still going through security clearance. And it took them less than ten minutes since the last time they called! "You're done with the clearance _already?_ You're on the plane and ready to take off? Isn't that too _fast?"_

"No, no," said Amy, and Atticus could hear the exhaustion in her sigh. "Uncle Fiske and I are still here, going through security, but it wouldn't take us more than fifteen minutes before we take off. Dr Liu had put us on high priority, if you're wondering why it's taking us less than an hour. We can't just meet each other now. We have flight schedules, Att."

"But you just said—!"

"Ian didn't have to go through clearance," Amy cut in, clarifying before the younger Rosenbloom even posed the question. "Uncle Fiske…well, he kind of…saw Ian in a… situation…" Amy took a shuddering breath that chilled Atticus to the bone, making him wonder just what situation it was all about. "…so the doctor says that the sooner Ian gets to London, the better."

Atticus thought for a moment, the gears behind his eyes working frantically for a way out of this predicament. "…Amy, do you know what plane you're boarding?"

"Um…Dr Liu said it's only a Cessna, carrying up to only four passengers, besides the pilot." Then Amy curiously pondered on why Atticus would be asking something out of the blue. "Why do you ask?"

"You can't get him out of the Cessna first?" Atticus said instead, purposefully ignoring Amy's prompt in all his desperateness. "Because I _really_ need to talk—to you _two!"_

Amy didn't notice at all that the boy had merely evaded her question. "Atticus. Tell me the truth." Her tone immediately clicked on the seriousness indicative of her Madrigal leadership. "Just _what_ is so important that you'd want me to break some rules here?"

"Ian. That's who. His life is in danger, Amy. The curse is ticking, and if you want him to be safe, you should just follow my lead and trust me—"

Amy sighed for most probably the umpteenth time in this morning alone. "Atticus, I tell you, Ian is completely safe. Me, Uncle Fiske, and Dr Liu would never leave his side. I'll meet you, but I can't let Ian off the plane now. He needs to rest."

"What? No! Not just you! This is urgent! I have to talk to the _two of you!"_

"Whatever you have to say to Ian, you can say to me."

Oh, no. "Amy! It doesn't work that way, it—"

"I'll meet you outside the port. I'm really sorry, Atticus, but I can't let anything disturb him now."

And then she hung up.

Atticus groaned his frustration. The barriers of cellular communication! Well then, there wasn't any point in dwelling over it, now, was there? They've got to deal with this problem, fast. There was no help for it. He was going to have to force Ian out of that charter plane himself. And as Amy so helpfully pointed out, they were only riding a Cessna, a small aircraft that would surely be out of place in a public airport. Also, since they were on top priority, that particular Cessna where Ian is could be easily found just somewhere in the airstrip. He'll just have to think of how to bypass security. He was sure he could think of something once he got there...

He was so close, so _close_ to saving him, and Atticus would just not let another person die because of his lack of action. His mother died because Atticus only watched her suffer, even though he knew that it was Dave Speminer, that animal _Damien Vesper_ , who'd poisoned her. His lack of action was what killed her. It was _his fault_ that she died. He could have spoken up and the Harvard doctors might have figured out a way to find the antidote, but no, just because he was pushed back a little, just because the people around him told him to shut up, he'd already admitted defeat.

And Atticus had had enough of that.

This time, he wasn't going to let himself be discouraged by any setbacks. This time, he wasn't going to just watch everything occur from the sidelines. This time, he was going to get out in the field himself and fight like a true gladiator in the middle of a Roman coliseum, right where the Roman Emperor could marvel at his valour, just like the heroic knight in his mother's stories. He was going to move forward the pieces across the board himself. He was going to make his plan happen, and he was _not_ going to just sit back and do _nothing_.

No matter what.

* * *

Amy knew that that was a bit cruel of her to just hang up on the little guy like that. It wasn't like her to do that, especially not to Atticus Rosenbloom…but he had left her no choice. He needed to understand that this was not some sort of action novel where you get to do what you wanted to do. The real world had rules, and you had to abide by them. Perhaps she could bend some rules, if Atticus even began to explain what was going on in here, but since the young boy insisted that it would be better if they talked this matter over personally, well, there was nothing Amy could do but tell him to desist.

After having convinced Fiske that she had something important to do, Amy worked her way out the crowd and waited out of the establishment to the outdoors to wait for Atticus and Ned. She made sure that she was someplace where she could be easily spotted, as they had just agreed. Amy had told Fiske that if they had to go already, then they could go without her. Ian had to get to London so that the doctors could figure out what was wrong with him and they could cure him from this anomaly. Ian had to go, but Amy didn't necessarily have to.

She stood in the middle of a grassy park, where departing or arriving loved ones hugged and shared sad or happy tears with their families. This was the perfect spot to wait. The small, green park was surrounded by a wide pavement, a drive road where cars that entered the airport made a turnaround for the parking lot. Also, from here behind her, she could see the dark-blue glass dome where people crowded for the departure or the arrival section—she could even see that construction site where tractors and workers were already hard at work this morning. Huh. So there really was construction work going on here in the airport. Amy briefly wondered what other establishment they were building right now…

She let her mind wander to these seemingly insignificant thoughts as she waited for the boys to arrive.

* * *

Atticus and Ned finally got to the airport. At that moment, they stopped to catch their breath. They did it.

They _did_ it, they actually made it to the airport by foot, but this was still not the time for celebration. They had more work to do, and if they wanted to accomplish it right, they were going to have to split up.

"There's Amy!" said Atticus, pointing at the girl that stood in the middle of a grassy park. Her red hair and green sweater were unmistakable even from this far. "Okay, Ned, remember our plan?"

Ned nodded. "You go to the airfield, find the charter plane, drag Ian out, and then make her meet up with Amy."

Atticus nodded back. "And you'll be bringing Amy, walk her towards Ian, all while I push him towards you—"

The Starling's voice mingled with the Rosenbloom's as they said the conclusion in unison.

"—until we make them meet each other."

It was a little rusty and probably a little crazy, but this was all they had. They had formulated their little plan while they were on the run, discussing contingencies and Plan Bs and refining the rougher points of their unpremeditated scheme. With the time constrictions and Ian's plane leaving at any moment now, they had no more seconds to lose.

"So." Atticus raised his fist at Ned. "All things go?"

Ned bumped Atticus' fist with a smirk. "All things go."

And at that, they went on their two separate ways to fulfil one plan, and reach one goal.

* * *

Jake looked ahead at the traffic. It was pretty heavy and he would not be able to get through unless he took the risk and performed drastic measures.

So Jake drove his bike onto the sidewalk, making sure to stay out of the traffic officers' eyes as he went along, taking risks by going through the gaps between cars and pedaling as fast as he could. He didn't notice Ned Starling's idle gray car parked by the sidewalk, because his eyes were steadily focused on the things that lied ahead, his hands gripping tightly on his bike's handholds, now slick with sweat and white with tension.

He didn't know why he was even doing this. He knew that this was none of his business and that Atticus was pushing him out of the way for a reason. But, it was not just jealousy. It was more than that. It was more of like…a desire, a _longing_. He had a feeling that he had to stop whatever's going to happen. Because from deep inside of him, this primitive desire kept pushing him forward, wondering, questioning, _doubting_ what Amy would do.

Or whom Amy would choose.

* * *

Once Amy spotted him, her face broke into a smile. "Oh, hey, there you are!" she said, running towards him across the grass, and then paused to give a reasonable distance between the two of them. "Ted…no, Ned, right?"

Ned smiled, like an old friend who saw her for the first time in a long time. "Hello, Ames."

"Hi." She craned her neck to look behind him as if looking for someone else. And then Amy took note that he wasn't _actually_ with anyone else. "You're…alone? But I thought Atticus wanted to talk to—"

"No time to explain. Come on."

Ned took her hand and he began running with her towards the building.

Amy was thoroughly confused now. "Wait, where are you taking me? Why are we going back in?"

"Look, Amy," said Ned as the both of them ran, "I myself don't know what I'm doing. But…you just have to trust Atticus."

* * *

"Hey, kid, you're not going in unless you have a passport."

Atticus bit his lip. Going through the customs security was harder than he thought. He was going to have to try harder...and take this shame to his grave.

Lips trembling and eyes watering in tears, he said, in a theatrical voice worthy of an opera singer, "I…I lost my parents! They're in there! I _have_ to get to them!"

The guard was not smiling now. He was getting quite irate of the little guy's persistence. He didn't know _when_ to give up, did he? "I'm sorry kid, but I can't let you in, okay?" he said, in the friendliest voice he could manage, before his usually colder demeanour poked through. _Patience, Gregor_ , he told himself. _Patience. He's only a little kid_.

"Y...you're _mean!_ " cried Atticus in his most childish voice. _"I want to see my mommy and daddy!"_

The lonely guard sighed to himself. "Okay, look here, laddie. The most I could do for you is to page for them. Do you know what 'to page' means? That means we're going to call out their names on these really huge speakers so they could hear it and they would come and get you. All you have to do is give me their names." He posed his pen over his notepad, ready to take it down. "So. What are their names?"

Atticus made sure to avoid that question. He didn't want leaving clues about his identity now, did he? "But…but I have to get inside! They're _there!"_

Gregor sighed sadly. Kids these days. All they knew how to do was play games in their tablet. This little guy reminded him of his son Simon—they don't even bother to know their parents' names anymore!

"Oh, hello, little one," said someone, and the child and the security guard both lifted their eyes to meet the kindly gray ones of a tall man, who had a lady beside him—possibly his fiancée, or perhaps his wife. To their surprise, the man knelt in front of Atticus so that he could look at him levelly. "So, young lad. You say your parents are inside?"

"Yes!" Atticus fiercely nodded his head in agreement, the same way a desperate child would be doing so. "My mommy promised to buy me candy, but—but—" Atticus pointed a childish, stubby finger up at the guard— "that big bad officer won't let me in! He's so mean! Mean, mean, _mean!"_ Atticus looked like he was on the verge of a tantrum, even stomping his feet on the ground to make his performance a little more effective. "I'm gonna cry if I don't see my mommy, like, _right!_ _NOW!_ "

Atticus mentally facepalmed. Ugh. Jake would laugh at him if he saw him now. The last time Atticus spoke like an eleven-year-old kid was when he was four years old—and that was because he'd forgotten that the Euthyphro dilemma is found in Plato's dialogue in which _Socrates_ challenged _Euthyphro_ , and not the other way around.

The officer blushed red at that while the couple just simply looked at each other, amused.

"Officer," said the man, decision in his voice, "we're going to take the child with us."

"What?" spluttered the guard. "But _sir!_ "

 _"Honey!"_ seethed his wife, her teeth gritted. "We don't even know that child!"

The husband gave her a look. "Dear, please. We can't just let a lost, helpless child just stand out here!" Then the kind man touched Atticus by the shoulder. "Come on, little one. We're taking you with us. Do you know your name?"

Atticus Rosenbloom rolled his eyes. Of course he knew his own name. What did they all think he was? An idiot?

"Peter. Peter Williams!"

The man smiled. "Well, then, Peter. Let's go find your mom and dad, okay?"

And so, 'Peter Williams', the kind man, and his stingy wife went through customs security without more issues, Greg simply rolling his eyes at the entire situation and then going back to his work. Once the three of them were through, though…

"Hey, Peter," said the man, turning his head down so he could look at the child, "what do your parents look like? Hmm? Peter…" No. The child was gone—already! The man looked frantically around, but the'd already lost the child in the crowd. "Peter! Where are—"

The wife shushed her husband and told her that the child was none of their business. The husband protested, naturally, saying that they should tell this to the officers, but since the wife was persistent and that they had a flight to chase anyway, the husband resigned and decided that his wife was probably right. They should just all go on and live their separate lives.

* * *

Atticus burst out and went into the landing field. The wind hit him hard onto the face, splashing all over him like cold water, but soon his eyes got accustomed to it and he stood there, scanning the wide airfield with straining eyes. Okay then. He got this far. But he suddenly didn't know what course of action to take. He wasn't that he was about to back down, but suddenly, the sensation of having even gotten through it this far filled him and…and…

 _Argh, Atticus!_ he scolded himself, on the verge of full-blown frustration. _You've got no time to lose! Focus!_

But…

_Where to?_

The Cessna. He had to be looking for the Cessna. It shouldn't be that hard to find. As Atticus stood there, he seemed to remain unseen to the airport staff that kept the area ever so busy. There was the large passenger aeroplane taxiing towards the passenger terminal, other aircraft taking off, others being refuelled, luggage and cargo being taken from the hold to the terminal, service vehicles carrying off freight, and if Atticus turned around, he would see the two control towers that loomed over him.

But no Cessna.

Soon, the implications of that very fact crashed down upon him like a collapsing building. No. Nonononono. It can't be. It simply _can't_.

But…if there was no Cessna…

It only meant one thing.

Atticus fell down onto his knees as he realized it with horror, the weight of failure too much for him to bear.

_It had already taken off._

* * *

Jake dashed through the streets, his legs tired of pumping, but his heart continuing on beating. He saw a sign that said that the airport was just two hundred meters away. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his knuckles were growing whiter than ever.

He's near. He could already see the little dome. He'd just have to pedal some more…

* * *

Ian halted in his tracks and nearly tripped over his own Prada shoes in shock when he saw the familiar figure kneeling on the ground.

_"Atticus?"_

The boy twitched in surprise. And then he turned around, following his voice, and when he finally saw his face and their eyes met, the young Rosenbloom who'd been about to fall into despair nearly cried out in joy.

"Ian… _Ian?!_ What—but I—but you—but the _Cessna_ , and I—" He was clearly in a loss of words, although the expression in his face was enough to convey that he was happy. "Oh, _Ian!"_ And then, that's when young boy jumped up and ran and collided happily against Ian, nearly knocking the air out of the British teen as the Rosenbloom kid hugged him tight. "I really thought I'd never see you ever again!"

They stayed like that, not moving, hugging each other like real siblings. Ian all too suddenly didn't know how to react. He stood there, frozen on his feet as he simply let the eleven-year-old boy hug him from around his torso. It…it reminded him too much of…

_"Ian!" she cried, and she ran to him, not caring about his shocked expression as she hugged him even tighter, ever closer, not wanting him separated from her ever again. "You're safe!"_

This reminded him too much of him and Natalie, that little moment where they were given the last chance to embrace each other…just before she was once more taken away from him and died at the hands of the Vespers.

This scene was now making him more uncomfortable than necessary. "Ah...well, Atticus," said he, and he cleared his throat quite awkwardly. "This is all very…well, lovely, but…will you please…"

Atticus suddenly seemed to realize what he was actually doing. "Oh, sorry, sorry!" he said, jumping away from him, mortification evident in his flushed face. "In actuality, I—I'm just…I'm just so glad! I seriously thought you'd already taken off, and that…that I'd never see you again, and…"

"No, we haven't yet taken off," clarified Ian, "I was simply out here looking for Amy." Then suddenly he realized that Atticus was the one who should be answering the questions here. "But you, pray tell, what are _you_ doing here?"

And suddenly, Atticus smiling face turned into that one of gravity. He shook the dread off of his shoulders and pulled at Ian's hand. "Just go with me."

"No!"

And then _that_ was the moment when Ian slapped Atticus' hand away from him like it was on fire. The Rosenbloom recoiled in shock, holding his slapped hand in pain, but there was more of it on his eyes.

_What?_

Did Ian just…slap him off?

Now the joy in his eyes was replaced with fear.

"…Ian? Are you..."

"I...I apologize, I…" Ian took a horrified look at his hand, his bewildered amber eyes barely believing that he'd just slapped someone with his very hand. He recoiled, shrunk back, and stepped away from Atticus as if afraid he might hurt him again. "I don't know what I've done."

The Rosenbloom decided to approach him. Very, very carefully. "What's…wrong?"

_Everything. Everything is…_

Then he cringed again in pain, turning his head away so that Atticus wouldn't see any of it...

Even though the boy knew that he'd seen enough.

"Ian…" Atticus reached out to hold Ian's hand, making him look at him into the eyes. "You're dying. That's why you're feeling this way. But there's a way out...and I know how to cure you. Come."

And then Atticus pulled him out of there.

* * *

But Amy didn't want to come with Ned. They were still outside in the park, right across the road.

"They will not let you in there, Ned!" she argued. "You need a passport to even get past that guard, you see? And since I don't want any trouble, I'm not going to go any further unless you explain _everything_ that's going on, right here, right _now!"_

Ned looked on despairingly at the girl. And then he sighed. All this drama, and while they were wide out to the public...

"Amy. Atticus wants to save Ian's life. And that could only happen if you follow him. Ian is under a curse and…dare I say this…he needs a true love's kiss."

 _"What?"_ Amy laughed aloud as if Ned had just spoken a joke. It lasted for several seconds. But then the laugh disintegrated into an awkward chuckle and then into an expression that of shock as the implications of what he'd just said hit her face like a block of ice. "What…are you…talking about?"

"So." Ned put his hands together, finally glad that he was being taken seriously now. "Atticus told me to tell you, that once you see Ian, all you have to do is…"

And then, as if by some miracle or some sort of magic, the horrible realization dawned upon her and all too suddenly, just at that moment, _everything_ clicked right into place—the curse, the true love's kiss, Atticus' seemingly slips of the tongue, and his irrationally desperate need to talk to the _two_ of them, she and Ian, _together_. The pieces fell, and the picture it formed was...

_Less than pleasant._

"A...a true love's... _what?_ " she sputtered. Then, she began shaking her head, slowly at first, and then she was pacing, here and there, her hands holding her head, trapped in a dilemma. "No. No no no no. M- _me?_ I—I can't do that. I can't do _that!_ Jake is—"

But then Ned gestured behind him, and Amy followed where he motioned his hand. And suddenly, there he was. She saw him, across the road. He was being pulled along by Atticus, past the guards and through the crowds, until they stopped, and just stood there, bewildered. He stood there...where Amy Cahill's green eyes locked with Ian Kabra's amber ones.

The girl felt the fists by her side slowly go slack.

_What...is the meaning of this?_

And suddenly, she heard Ned's voice behind her. His voice was soft, low, barely even just above a whisper...

...but it pushed her.

"What if it has to be for Ian?"

* * *

He didn't know what was happening.

He barely had a grip on his consciousness, the headache was killing him with a pain so intense he almost _meant_ it in the literal sense, and the voices...they were the worst. They kept ringing in his ears like the cry of a thousand souls, warning him, imploring him, _willing him to give up_. For the life of him, he couldn't bloody shut them up. They grew louder and louder in every second and it nearly impaired him from even standing up straight, from fighting against whatever unnatural force has put him under this tormenting curse. He was nearly only grasping at the straws of control. He'd promised himself never to let go, never to be triumphed over...

...but he was staggering. _Staggering_.

He felt pathetic. He never thought that he'd ever use that word in reference to himself but that was _precisely_ the only way to describe what he felt right now. He was being led by Atticus through the crowd, past the guards and out through the masses of bodies, until finally, in the midst of all chaos, he reached his destination, stood there, and found peace—

—when he met her infernal green eyes.

But, to his muddled state of mind, they weren't green to him.

They were amber.

* * *

Amy's eyes never left his as she crossed the road with running legs, until she stood in front of him, until they were both in front of each other.

His eyes bore a thousand questions, but they only painted one word: confusion. "What...is..."

Amy blushed under his amber gaze, but she maintained her stand, unwavering. She clenched her fists by her side.

"Ian...I'm..." How? _How_ do you say it? "I'm _really_..."

But whatever she was going to say, she didn't get to continue. The world suddenly turned silent as they just stared into each other's eyes. Everything was mute in that one second, all noise blocked out, and in a world where time seemed to cease from existence, _nothing_ stood between them—they were Amy Cahill and Ian Kabra, where hope shone, and love conquered...where curses die, and miracles are born. This was a moment of truth, and nothing was going to destroy it. _Nothing_. So then...

And _then_...

And then the silence was shattered.

… _and then they heard it._

* * *

Jake had just arrived, and no one even noticed.

He was standing there, right behind them. Panting, because of having pedalled all the way from Wal-Mart to the airport. Standing, and looking over at them in shock. Watching, as Amy and Ian stood before each other. Realizing that he was about to be openly betrayed right before his eyes...and hurting inside.

But despite all that, no one doesn't even _notice_.

He never knew. He never knew that he was this...unwanted. Amy, the love of his life, didn't even look at him when he arrived, because her eyes were already fixated...and onto another pair of amber ones. Jake clenched his fists by his side. Just... _what_ did he do wrong to deserve this? He loved Amy, didn't he? He never cheated, he never looked at another girl, he was loyal, he was protective, he was _sincerely_ in love with Amy...but then, this Ian Kabra appears, and _everything_ —Amy's eyes, heart, and love, was ripped away from him in just one instant. Well, look at her! She was staring at _Ian_ instead of him, but the worst thing was, she doesn't even _notice_ him! Jake knew that this might only be the work of his imagination...but Amy was staring at Ian in so _intimate_ a way that it couldn't have meant anything else! So, what did it mean for Jake? Was he really _that_ unwanted? Was he just this Annoying Jerk blocking the way of what could have possibly been a blooming relationship? Was he really that much of a nuisance in between them? Was he so bad, and awful, and so _terrible_ of a person that even _Atticus_ , his own brother, had to go to lengths just to push him away from this entire situation?

_What was Amy going to do now?_

...as she walked closer to Ian, her eyes glued to his disoriented amber ones, Jake knew.

Jake knew, and he clenched his fists, gritted his teeth, and let the hot moist sting at his eyes.

_She was really going to choose Ian over him._

…he flashed a look at his brother Atticus. No, even his own brother did not even notice him. Because why _would_ he? Atticus was, after all, the one who initiated all this true love's kiss action in the first place. And Jake was only that giant boulder in the middle of the river that prevented it from running free. Jake was useless, unwanted, _unnecessary_ ; he was that guy who prevented their love from becoming possible. A prideful part of him considered walking to them both and then knocking Ian _away_ from his girlfriend, _away_ from his brother, _away_ from his entire _life_ —but, as he thought of it...

He didn't want to. He didn't _want_ to do that. Ian Kabra needed to be healed of this curse. It would make Amy unhappy if he wasn't.

And at that moment, Jake knew what _would_ make Amy happy.

_It would make her happy if Jake Rosenbloom just went and gave the way._

If it hadn't been for the circumstances of the past few days, right now, Jake Rosenbloom might have already been simmering of rage and jealousy. But, for some strange reason, he felt...numb. Well, was there any more reason for him to feel anything? The world didn't matter anymore if he was no use to it. He let his fists fall by his side, and he turned his back...and decided to flee. The absurdity of the entire situation had left him and what remained was a hollow hole inside. Amy really was going to choose Ian over him. Amy really was going to choose Ian over him. Amy really _was_ going to…

He was cut off from thinking any further. Because, suddenly, it seemed as if the whole world went silent.

And then he heard it.

He stopped right at the middle of the road. The shock of frantic honking had frozen him still. The shadow of the looming threat fast approached him, and he heard the screeching of the tires, the vile odour of rubber, the last minute yelling of the driver.

_And then..._

...and then he looked up in horror.

* * *

Atticus' eyes widened in horror as he suddenly realized what was going to happen here. Everyone else did, too.

He had honestly been too fixated, too eager, too _fascinated_ , of what was going to happen now that the true love's kiss was about the happen, now that the end of this curse was at hand, that he didn't even notice that his brother had come into the scene. But now that he did...

...it was only of horror.

The roar. The yells. The _honking._ The screeching of the tires and the frantic hollering. Everybody heard it. And he heard it too. He ripped his eyes from Amy and Ian and looked out into the road, and then _finally_ noticed his brother, standing in the middle of all the chaos, frozen still like a statue. The driver of the cement truck was shouting now. He couldn't just stop. After having gone on high speed, he couldn't just stop _now_. The discombobulated driver was seriously starting to regret having slept drunk last night, but since the pay for the construction work cannot be ignored, he _had_ to go to work this morning and drive the truck—hangover or not. He was beeping, frantically, honking his horn loudly and yelling to tell the lad to _get the hell out of the way_ , but the stubborn teen just stood there, shocked and clearly frozen still.

He was cursing now, the vulgar language spilling out of his mouth in a string of colourful profanity. Hell, the brakes won't work!The young lad just stood there and crossed the road, too deep in thought to even notice the cement truck's untimely arrival. And now the driver's going to have to pay for this stubborn kid's funeral when he doesn't even have enough money to buy his own hangover pills. _Dammit!_ If the construction company knew about him getting drunk last night _and_ that he'd run the truck over some boy, he's going to get fired!

_"HEY! GET OUT OF THE WAY, YOU WEEDY BLOKE!"_

The crowd had already gathered round and saw what was going to happen. They were frantically shouting for Jake to get out of the way-but the stubborn teen just stood there, transfixed. Some thought he was too frozen to move, while some speculated that he was committing suicide. Either way, the fact was clear: Jake Rosenbloom wasn't doing anything to save himself, and he was going to _die_.

As this horrible realization crashed down upon Atticus, suddenly, the younger brother knew that he didn't care about anything anymore.

Screw Ian Kabra. Screw the curse of the mirror. _Screw this entirely ridiculous true love's kiss insanity._

What mattered was Jake Rosenbloom—friend, brother, _family_.

_And he was about to lose him forever._

All because it was _his_ fault that he pushed Jake away—

— _his fault he did something in the first place._

Atticus felt his throat constricting.

No. Nononononono. Just…no!

_Jake!_

* * *

_...the rumbling of the machine._

It's happening.

_The day he cursed the surname 'Cahill'._

Ian knew that it's happening _again_.

_The day when his world came crashing down into an end._

He turned his head. Heard it again.

_The day she died._

And suddenly, when he opened his eyes, he was right in the middle of all the chaos all over again.

The war of Cahills against the Vespers. The day of doom.

The Machina Fini Mundi.

He watched all of his relatives fight for their life and for the world—but that second of pride was cut off when, all too suddenly, every noise filtered out into an eerie ringing sound as his eyes fell upon one particular figure.

Natalie.

She picked up the iron rod from the floor. She jumped into the air, her hair billowing out from behind her. But before she landed down to strike at the machine, she took one last look at Ian. And...

...and smiled.

_Goodbye._

That feeling of helplessness, _desperateness_ , welled up inside of him again.

He was frozen right in place, not knowing what to do, how to react, how to even _move._

He had done nothing, nothing, _nothing_ to save her, it should've been him, it had been _entirely_ his fault why she died, and he... _he...!_

No.

He fought it. He fought it and struggled for control.

_No._

He was not going to let this despair triumph over him. Despair is not going to be the end of him. Because it's not supposed to be this way.

_It's not supposed to be this way at all!_

This epiphany opened his eyes, and suddenly the whole nightmare was shattered—and he could see the world again. Everything began to sharpen into focus—the noise, the crowd, this entire situation, _everything_. Like everybody else, he heard them too—the way the driver cursed and yelled, the honking of the horns, the frantic bellowings for Jake to get out of the way. Ian turned his head to see Jake Rosenbloom standing before death, and, at that moment, Ian Kabra knew what to do.

Shouting for him to get out of the way wouldn't do anything.

_He was going to get out there and save him himself._

Time slowed down to a crawl as Ian pushed Amy away from him, making her gasp and stumble back—and he took that as an opportunity to gather what remained of his strength and will and run for his life...for Jake's life. The shards of the mirrored past flew all about him, but Ian knew that the past didn't matter now—only the future.

The nightmares had come back to haunt him, to taunt him, to mock him, _daring_ him to step out and do something for once. He wasn't going to lose someone who he'd already lost, _no_ , but now, he could do _something_ to prevent that from happening to someone else. As he saw jake standing in the middle of the road right in the centre of danger, Ian could only think about Atticus Rosenbloom, about how he'd gotten fond of the young child, about how he'd become like a brother to him in the past few days...about how he'd feel if Jake Rosenbloom died. The young prodigy who was too innocent to even _start_ losing his family...too young to experience another loss.

And Ian knew that he couldn't very well do nothing about it again.

So, with his last remaining strength, he ran straight into the road where Jake stood in front of death.

_"Rosenbloom!"_

But he didn't move. _Blast it._ Ian clenched his fists and tried again—this time forgetting the past, this time forgetting the hatred, this time forgetting the rivalry...

...and, this time, calling him by _name_.

As a brother would do so.

* * *

Jake was aware that he was looking at his death and that he should _probably_ step away right now in panic, _if_ he didn't want to get mauled over and flattened like a pancake by a gigaton cement truck, what with the crowds already gathering and shouting and _begging_ Jake to just get himself together and get out of there to _save his own bloody life._

But...at that moment...he thought that he didn't even have the power to move.

He closed his eyes. If this was the best for Ian...if it was best for Amy...

_Then not anymore._

* * *

_"Jake!"_

Jake turned his head to the side and saw Ian running right to him. But then before his boggled brain could even register _anything_ , Jake Rosenbloom had already been pushed out of the way, and he was already flying into the air, and he landed onto the cemented pavement hard onto his back, his body then rolling off away from the brutal force. Pain exploded everywhere, _all_ over his body, and it took him more than several moments to gather his bearings—he was almost sure he'd been knocked out, right then and there.

But, when he managed to open his eyes again, groaning in pain and struggling to get up...he realized what was happening.

What happened next was a panicked crowd, a horrified driver, and blood on the ground just below the cement truck-whose driver that had managed to work on its brakes a second too late.

He didn't understand it the first moment. But when it did...

Only horror could be contained in his suddenly wide eyes.

_Oh, no._

He suddenly realized how terribly irreversible this whole situation had become—

_Oh, man...no._

—and that it had all been because of _him_.

Ian Kabra, the person he loathed, had actually just saved his life.

And with it, lost his own.

* * *

From the mesmerized, horrified crowd, only one of them managed to gather her voice back.

_"IAN!"_

Amy immediately ran towards the body, and she immediately sat onto the ground, checked for his pulse, _everything_ , hoping for the sake of her sanity that he was alive despite...despite all the blood spilled. No. Amy didn't want to look at it. She didn't even want to _think_ about it—because no, there was no use thinking of negative thoughts, there was no use falling into despair when there was actually nothing to despair about! But when she heard nothing, _no_ , Amy was sure that she didn't feel a pulse because she just didn't _know_ how to check a pulse. Right? Right?

_Right?_

"Ian? Ian, okay, you hear me, okay? Wake up. I'm here. Don't do this to me. _Please!_ You're going to be alright! _Fight it!_ "

Along with many other people, Atticus had approached her warily. And then he knelt down before Amy and held Ian's wrist to check the pulse himself.

Amy looked at Atticus hopefully. "So? He's okay, right?"

Atticus gritted his teeth and turned his head away. He didn't answer.

Amy demanded an immediate answer. "The pulse is weak, but it's there, right? _Right?_ "

Jake had approached the scene and when he saw the bloodied Ian on Amy's arms, the Rosenbloom couldn't help but turn his head away, not being able to bear the sight of the girl who he loved in pain...because she'd just lost another friend.

Jake balled his hands into fists. "Amy...he..."

But the girl wouldn't listen to anything else. "Atticus, seriously, don't s-s-scare me like that! Why aren't you saying anything? He's just alright, right? _Tell me he's alright!_ "

"Amy." Atticus turned his eyes to her. And Amy saw it brimming with tears. "He's gone."

* * *

Those words, coming from such a young mouth, didn't seem real. Everything around him didn't seem _real_ —all of it, _all of it_ , was absurd, _surreal_. And yet he was living it. He was totally living in it. Ned Starling could only watch the whole scene with unfeigned horror in his eyes. It had all happened too fast, almost like a fleeting dream, but it couldn't be denied. The broken bones, the blood. The closed eyes.

The curse was real.

Ian Kabra was dead.


	15. Now and Forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is inspired by Secondhand Serenade's Take Me With You (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tXSC7M69YPQ). 
> 
> I recommend playing it at the signal of an asterisk (*). :)

The morning sun was like a younger sibling's clamant nudge. It was a fond and annoying shake to the shoulder, an excited whispering in the ear; it was adamant, _urgent_ —so impatient it was, so eager, like the pleas of a wonder-stricken child, begging to be accompanied so they could sneak out into the country and bask in the thrill of childhood's mischiefs.

He gave up to the sunlight's demands with a groan. The sun was angled just right from the thinly curtained windows to make his eyes blink obligingly when they opened. And he _swore_ , by the way the sun glinted, that it smirked as wickedly as a Lucian at his wilful surrender. He had been forcing himself to sleep since the earliest rays of the sun had begun to invade the room (because how _dare_ the shameless intruder), but it seemed that he'd been rested well enough to be deemed unworthy of precious unconsciousness.

 _Might as well_ , he thought. It wouldn't do to let his irritation fester—the morning's cheery mood was too potent a drug, and fighting it would be futile.

There was someone by his bedside. _Seated_ at his bedside; but she was facing the window, so she mustn't have yet realized that he'd already come to. She was busy reading, each flip of a magazine's glossy page gracefully executed by long cinnamon fingers—tended exclusively by only the most exquisite French manicurists. She was a beautiful contrast against the sun, he observed; though if he'd ever told her that, she would never let him forget it.

He let a smile grace his lips.

For how couldn't he? Because for once, consciousness brought upon him true peace and honest calm, not lies that he forced onto himself to feel just to keep up the mask of being sane and in control.

 _No—no._ He took a calming breath, no.

_Everything's fine now._

He opened his mouth; a breath of hope.

"…Natalie."

The call carried in the air, and his voice was like a rock that was too sharp at the edges, a pitiful thing that hadn't been polished by its smith for a long time. At the sound of his weary call, the poised form of his sister stiffened. With a gracious, opera-worthy flip from the underside, she shut her magazine close. And then he could see her fisting at her skirt, her now-hunched shoulders tensing as she bowed her head—as if that could keep it from exploding.

Her voice, in contrast, was overused—it came out strained, hoarse, and rough, like she'd been screaming the night before. "I," she hissed, breathily, _angrily_ ,

"…want to _throttle you._ "

"Well," he parried eventually after a heartbeat or two, "good morning to you too." The smirk on his face came as easily as his sarcasm. "Now, will you kindly explain why you are in my room?"

"Taiwan," she said, who had now shot up from his bed to look at him with livid eyes. Ian patiently waited for further elaboration, but after a moment of more silence, he realized that she'd been rendered one-worded by her fury.

"Tai…wan?"

" _Exactly!_ " she exploded, pointing a finger at him as if he'd just done a heinous crime. As gracefully as a theatre actress did she dramatically spread her arms out as if to indicate their little room—which now Ian noticed to be a hospital room, with the white sunlit walls, the tell-tale tang of medicine, the catheter attached to his arm.

"I hate it here!" raged his sister. "These tropics practically _breed_ their bloody mosquitos, don't they. What say you we sue their blasted prime minister for this pathetic excuse of a civilization? I am so bloody close to doing it; and were Mum only here, I—! _Argh!_ " She'd kicked the innocent wall at that last grunt, frustrated she couldn't articulate her roused spirits.

"Natalie, calm down." He sighed. So much for one-worded. "They don't…ah, have prime ministers in Taiwan—"

Her eyes widened at the sight of him attempting to push himself from his bed by his elbows. She ran over, practically screamed, "DON'T!"

He stopped, looked at her, quizzical. "… _What?_ "

And then she was all over him, her hands on his shoulders, none-too-gently pushing him back down on his fluffy pillows. She was never very comfortable at acting like a mama bear over her brother, but when she had to—she _had_ to. This situation was puzzling Ian more and more by the second; there was something at the back of his mind, whispering a warning, tugging at the threads of his consciousness… but it sounded so unreal and infinitely far away, like it never existed at all.

Her expressive dark eyes stole his attention from it immediately, though, and for a moment, they were all he could look into. "Lie _down_ , you bloody fool," she hissed, and he could tell from her strained tones that she was worried. Angry, obviously, but just like everyone else, she preferred to express her worry by torturing him with her soprano. "Just _lie down_."

He scoffed, but that was just teasing, really. He obediently obliged to her wishes though, but even then there was a smirk on his lips and mischief in his amused amber eyes.

"Now, now, sister dear," he derided, and would have clapped his hands if he had the strength enough to lift them. "This is a performance to behold."

"Merely trying to worry over you like a good person," she muttered.

"Of course, many thanks. Because apparently sitting up will kill me. Anyway, have you—"

" _IAN!_ _Don't joke like that!_ " He swore her voice faltered as if a sob had been caught in her throat when she said his name—like she was afraid she'd never use it again, and was just too glad to lash it back at him in full-force, punish him with it over and over and over for _doing_ this to her.

Then she closed her eyes, as if to compose herself. After a moment, she opened them again. But she wouldn't look at him.

Quietly, she said, too _quietly_ , "Because, Ian? The last time you did, you…" It was so light a whisper. "…you threw up."

And then her voice gained intensity with each—scalding—word—

"All. Over. _THE SHEETS!_ " She put a hand over her forehead as if to force a headache down. "You have traumatized me for life."

He rolled his eyes. It was a game they played, far back when they were younger. After waking from unconsciousness, they'd tease each other of the horrific things they'd done while asleep (drooling, snoring, _saying_ the name of either their favourite Cahill cousins…), to see how far their lies would make it through.

"Well executed, Natalie, but I still _think_ you should let me advice you on your fibbing skills."

"I am _not_. _Lying! IAN!_ " she raged, and it was only then when he was taken aback by the reality of her indignation that Ian noticed the subtle details. Her sleepless eyes. Her untended hair. Her crumpled clothes, her weary voice.

Her chewed nails.

…that couldn't have been just an act.

She balled her hands to hide them into her fists as if she'd noticed him staring at her fingers.

"I am _serious_ , Ian, I—" Then she started pacing. Most uncharacteristic. "I know— _know_ it's ridiculous, of _course_ you'd be fine, the doctors have said so. But I couldn't believe them, _can't_ , seeing—you, like that." Her voice trembled with her lips, the way they do when you couldn't keep the tears inside anymore. She openly let them down her cheeks as she stared at Ian, who was so shocked at this broken display he can't help but...

Well.

His heart clenched at her pain.

As was the way with siblings.

He cast his eyes to a point on the far wall from behind her. "…oh."

A cracked semblance of a voice was torn from her throat; a broken laugh. She kept shaking her head, a wide smile on her lips, and she brought her hands to her face to wipe the tears dry, even as they kept flowing over.

"I hate you, hate you, I _hate_ you, Ian, you're such a royal pain in the arse, I _hate_ you, I…"

Ian opened his lips, putting away that sarcastic shield so the truth could be hidden from her no longer. He let guilt show in his eyes, a wordless apology.

… _I'm sorry._

"Natalie. Believe me. It's alright now." It was a bit of a struggle, but he managed to tap in his remaining reserves of strength as he reached a hand out to her shoulder, as if to reassure her that he was of flesh and bone—he was alive, he was here with her, he was not going to leave her alone. "I'm fine."

She violently backed away from his touch. "Ha! Of course you're fine, I _knew_ you're fine, Ian, it's just a bloody fever, but I _can't_ , you know? Mum didn't train us to panic, but what would you have a damn 10-year-old girl do anything _but?_ " Things really have not gone well if Natalie, of all people, just freely let an expletive loose from her finely-bred tongue.

"And yes, please go ahead, scold me now for that, but I wouldn't _care_ , because I thought— _thought_ you were going to…to—" _Die_. "—to leave me alone, how _dare_ you, I—I can't—go through _that_ again, it was bloody hell and I—" A whip of savage laughter. "—I couldn't sleep, couldn't eat couldn't calm down couldn't _possibly_ , when you were like that. You were awake but not awake and convulsing and vomiting all over the room and I can't do _anything_ , because you wouldn't hear me at all and I was _helpless_." She was convulsing now herself, though it was more emotional distress than anything else. She slowly let herself descend onto his bed, sitting with her shoulders hunched, not at all as poised as a proud Kabra.

Simply Natalie.

"…I was so scared."

Ian thought that the best response would be silence.

"I felt so alone." She said it in the space of his silence, her voice a mere whisper. "I'd called Mum and Papa. Three days ago. They said they'd come, but they haven't yet, obviously. And _you_ so blatantly refused to wake up. I didn't know what to do with you, you just…you had chills so violent it made me panic, your fever was too high, and too often you would vomit the food I'd begged for you to swallow and I can't _watch_ it, that they had to—to—"

She gestured wildly at the IV pole that held the translucent bag of dextrose, being delivered to his body by the long catheter attached up his arm.

"…to put that hideous tube-thing in you to _feed_ you, like my brother's some sort of invalid." She let out a shuddering breath. "For the life of me, I'd _never_ get used to it."

It had always seemed that, in their family, Ian had inherited the trait of severe fevers from his father—a fact he'd always complained about, because in contrast Natalie _never_ had to be confined to a hospital to be tended to. Far back into a past barely remembered, Vikram would put a hand on his son's shoulder, smile sadly a little, and say, _If it makes you feel better, Ian, I was that way when I was a child too. I tell you, there's no need to worry._ He'd chuckle fondly. _You're going to be alright, I promise._ He'd kneel to match his height, fondly ruffle his dark hair like a proud father would to his son.

_Because I'll be right here._

Always away though his father was, Ian felt more connected to his father than he ever had to his mother—who always seemed to favour Natalie anyway, given their shared femininity.

"I hate you for making me endure that kind of hell," declared Natalie for the hundredth time. "It shames me to call you my brother. Ian Kabra, descendant of Napoleon, _felled_ by a common tropical mosquito. You are a legend to be marvelled over by the bards."

…why did she keep complaining about the bloody mosquitoes?

He took a wild guess.

"Dengue fever, then?" he asked, his voice small. He knew how that tropical disease could seriously kill young children like him, were the victim not tended to immediately. And he could remember vaguely that he'd been suppressing his fever for two days even before he gave up in the car…

Her face was tight; no _,_ Ian, _worse_.

"Malaria. We've just finished the mission Mum sent us here for, and we were in the car, on the way to the hotel, and I was happily chatting the time away. And then, without warning, you just… _just_ …" Her steady face contorted as the memories came to drown her words out. "…just _fell_. On my lap. Like a pathetic _dog!_ " Her voice rose. "At first I thought you were playing at some ridiculous game, but then I realized you were _burning_ , and I panicked, because we all know how you fare against fevers! I was so scared, I—I was so _frustrated_ , the fanciest hospital the stupid driver can find apparently had the shabbiest staff who couldn't understand a word I'm saying. _Even if I was using the Queen's bloody English!_ If you make me go through like that ever again, I will _personally have you flogged when you wake up!"_

He sighed and put two fingers onto the bridge of his nose, as if exasperated. "Oh, Natalie."

She snapped her eyes at him. "Don't you _Oh-Natalie_ me. I haven't heard an apology yet for all my efforts to keep you breathing, Ian!"

"Then if you're done bleating your anguished life at me, _sweet_ Natalie, I will seize the chance. Because truly, from the bottom of my heart, I must tell you…" He looked at her, solemnly, as if he was first coating his words with liquid silver before he let them through his mouth. Natalie stared at him expectantly.

But that was just an act, because a smirk spread on his lips.

"You look awful."

Blunt as a knife.

"…that's it?"

Ian shrugged, not bothering to hide that smirk. The bloody tease.

Natalie bore her own across her lips when she crossed her arms over her chest. "How very _touching_ , Ian."

"Good. It's just that you've rendered me so astonished that you were able to manage your afflicted brother on your own." Being as much the showman his sister was, he put a hand over his heart and pretended to bow his head in respect before her. "I must say that my gratitude is too enormous for words."

Natalie edged nearer to her big brother to punch him in the shoulder, forcing him to surrender his dramatic mockery of a bow. "More like your _ego_ is too enormous for gratitude."

His smirk widened. "Like yours aren't?"

"Of course not," she agreed. "Like sister, like brother."

"I beg to disagree. It's _Like brother, like sister_ , sister."

She frowned. "No, it's not. I should come first."

"May I remind you that _I'm_ the older one here?"

Natalie haughtily lifted her chin to the air. "Then that makes _you_ all the more shameful, given that the younger is taking the responsibility of caring for you."

Ian smirked at the challenge she presented, like a proud mentor seeing the fruits of his student. "Oh, come now, you're above that pettiness, Natalie…"

"Of course I am," she smirked back. "I'll be the mature one and let you your victory."

That effectively shut the argument.

"…you," Ian was feigning indignation, "absolutely _stole my line._ "

She shrugged. "I learn from the worst brothers."

"I'm afraid you're cursed with only one."

"I _know_ ; makes it worse."

The angle of his mouth softened into something akin to a fond smile, that which was tinged by the slightest touch of almost-sadness that he couldn't explain. Because, at that moment, he admits, cursing sentimentality to hell, that he couldn't have been more _grateful_ for having such a sister as this soon-to-be woman before him.

There was moist shining in her eyes, though with the blinding light from behind her, he couldn't be certain.

She spoke, averting her eyes from his own. "But, truly? You scared me. You _are_ my only brother, and that _does_ make it worse, had something…happened…to you. I wouldn't know what to do." She whispered it, as quietly and timidly as a little child. "I'm clumsy without you, Ian. You're practically my walking stick. So promise me that you won't leave me like that ever again."

There was a pang in his stomach as the vulnerable image of a little girl from a distant past stroke at his memory . "Natalie…how…"

 _How could you_ ever _think that I'd choose_ anything _over you?_

He moved to touch her shoulder, to reassure her once more, _I'm here_.

—but shocked—

He tripped.

_Breathe._

His eyes widened; he shot his arm out as if to keep her from disappearing, but just when he thought his hand had gripped her shoulder, he fell _through_ her, because _she_ _was_ _ **not**_ _**there**_ —

A memory.

Tripped.

_Breathe._

He landed onto the floor, fell harshly onto his knees and he was staring, horrified at his empty hands because uncontrollably, they were shaking, he was sh-sh- _shivering_ —

Her blood dripped from his fingers and he could not stand the sight of it, the _thought_ of it, these useless hands that couldn't revive her heart, couldn't revive his sister, couldn't revive her _corpse_ and _she was dead_ and nothing could bring her back _and_ _it was all_ —

"I'm sorry."

— _his_ —

"I'm sorry, it's my fault, I'm so sorry, I—"

Her body lay just across of him, cold, unmoving, dead.

_The simple truth of having to live the rest of his life without her._

"I'm so sorry—"

He hated it so much he started sprouting out lies, uncontrollable, clumsily spilling out of his mouth like ammunition too rusty from disuse.

"How dare you, how could you, _I hate you_ —"

Each word so pained his heart, he was too hurt, there was no other way he was going to get out of this that won't have him torn and shredded. Everything that has happened was too irrevocably terrible that he _craved_ for the sweet embrace of non-existence—

"I'm so sorry—"

He wanted to retch.

_Breathe._

"I'm so sorry—"

Take a breath, let it out _slowly_ —

"So sorry, I'm—"

But they came out in rasps; he _can't_ —

"Ian, _shut up_. Listen to me, you're going to be alright, okay? You have to hold on, do me a favour and _hold on_ —"

Her warm fingers took his cold cheek and he could feel her hot tears falling on his face, her green eyes pleading, the blinding sun from behind making shadows out of her red hair. She was clapping at his cheeks as if in panic barely controlled, and the muffled noise of the background slowly came into focus: people, chattering, cursing, shouting, ambulances, and the lights…the lights were the _worst_. They were too strong, they overwhelmed his weathered senses, they blinded him with a pain so sharp that it was physical; but this red-haired girl, why was she— _who_ _ **was**_ _she?_ —

"Hey, hey. Ian. Don't mind them; just look at me. And stop talking like that, you idiot, just shut. _Up_. I said _look at me._ It's me, it's Amy. Hold on, it's going to be alright—Ian, don't you dare. Don't you _dare do this_ , do me a favour and just—"

_Breathe._

She was instructing him, just as how he'd been ever since his life fell apart—she remained to be steadfast in her purpose of being his beacon in the darkness of the sea. He smiled, thanking her silently.

She'd tried so hard to keep fighting beside him, but this was his fight, his journey. Now he knows where he's headed: wherever the river flowed, because he's tired, so tired of fighting it, he's—

"Okay, Ian? On my word—"

_Breathe._

He's made his decision.

He let a laugh rip from his throat. Because this, this was the cowardly truth, and he's tired of lying to himself—

_He can't._

Over the drowning sounds of the ambulance, he took her hand, and whispered, barely heard but there—

"I'm so sorry."

When he finally accepted things as they were, he couldn't have felt more content to let go, and move on.

**(*)**

The cold mists of clouds swirled eagerly beneath her feet with each weightless step, the whispering white wisps like a child's eager response to follow wherever her dance bid them go. She was strolling across the gardens, a young woman so beautiful and graceful that anyone who'd look at her would wonder, _why is she alone?_

But then, eventually, she paused from her walking. Her long fingers, which were reaching for a white dewed flower, had stopped mid-air. She let a smirk grace her lips.

Because she wasn't alone.

_Not anymore._

She turned around. Breathed in the sight of him.

"Ian."

His breath was caught in his throat.

"…Natalie."

The girl had a barely-contained smile on her face—the kind of smile that might have gone wider only if her small face allowed it—when she strode over to him.

And slapped him, oh-so-satisfyingly.

He staggered, his hands flying to his abused cheek; and on his face was more of shock than pain.

Certainly _not_ the emotional reunion he'd had in mind.

" _What_ _the bloody hell—?!_ "

"You know, I shall have you flogged, but since there's nary a whip around, _that_ should more than compensate." She said this in such haughtiness that rendered Ian even more shocked than he already was. Perhaps because he's hadn't too much practice in the game of words, or perhaps because no one was as challenging as Natalie in the real world to cross swords with. But all the same...

A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Then I…" He was touching his cheek, eyes still wide, and he was stumbling over unspoken words; and when he was able to gather himself, the astonishment was still naked on his face. "…am too humbled by this mercy, kind sister."

He'd prefer this over being flogged, after all.

But then, just as shockingly, she attacked him with a crushing embrace, _tightly_ ; the balm over the wound.

And for a moment, Ian was frozen, even as Natalie's arms tightened around his neck, burying her head onto the nook of his shoulder, surrendering into the shudder of boneless relief that _finally_ —

She wasn't alone anymore.

Ian stared at the star-studded sky, standing still but not firmly—not firmly though he was ice, because he was melting under the warmth of her embrace, he was _cracking_ , he was collapsing onto his knees under the strength of her tight hold, so sure and there and _real_ ; for that one blind moment when his eyes glistened over with such an unrecognizable, overwhelming _feeling_ , he didn't know anything but utter _joy_.

He put his trembling arms around his sister. Once he had them wrapped around her, and she didn't disappear, or wasn't taken away from him forcibly, his heart swelled, it _soared_ , and he wasn't trembling anymore—he was _whole_ , this was _real_ , what was lost is found and he _swore that he'll never lose her again_. His thoughts whizzed passed in a blur so quick it hurt, but it didn't, because even if he cried and she sobbed, the tears were _nothing_ of pain, rather than a relief from it.

And the two of them shed their tears, _shared_ their tears, the misty fog rising to envelop the united siblings in a spell of time—to stretch that single moment into some semblance of eternity.

The tears eventually subsided to give way to much shuddering and relief. His eyes were closed, his head in her hair; her own ambers were wide open, tears so openly expressed—and they gleamed at the sky, which was now abandoned by the stars as the darkness was chased away by radiant strokes of pinks and purples and oranges so vivid, that the colours seemed to be a tangible thing to be tasted in the air.

"So." She was the first to break the silence. "What of things?"

He held her tighter, as if the sudden noise had startled him.

"Promise me," he breathed, tightly, like he was afraid that one wrong mistake would shatter so fragile a moment, "that this is real."

She let a chuckle loose. "I promise."

"That you _won't leave me like that again_."

Natalie inclined her head to the side and polished it all up with her own signature smirk. "…now, _now_ , Ian, that was just payback."

"And a cruel one at that." He broke from the embrace so he could look at her eyes, the tone on his words playing a reprimanding note. "You really do learn from the worst."

"Not my fault you decided to keep the promise one-sided."

"That's why I am asking you to hold the same promise now."

She sighed, decided to be the mature one, and surrendered. "I promise, with all my heart and soul, _not_ to leave you like that again, because it's crippling, it's harrowing, it's plain torture. We both agree, yes?"

He laughed softly as he hefted himself up from his knees and assisted Natalie along with it. "Well-worded, sister. But at least in _your_ experience, you didn't have me die on you." He glared at her then, and accusingly—

"You're a bleeding traitor."

Natalie blinked. " _Traitor?!_ Well, yes, that I am. But I most definitely did _not_ bleed dying," backlashed the sister, laughing at the glare she further received from her snake of a brother. "And anyway, you _are_ the older one. You should have the more…extreme of cases."

"Hm." He looked to the east, to the rising sun from whence the wind blew. "I suppose I should."

Natalie looked over at him thoughtfully. And then weaved her small fingers into his.

When he looked down at her questioningly, she answered with a whisper.

"And you have."

_And I'm so sorry._

Silence stretched the time they were together as they stood and witnessed the sun yawn and rise slowly from its deep slumber. Only when it was perched, high and secure in the sky, did Natalie speak again.

"Come, I wish to show you something."

And when she ran off, and broke her hand from his, he panicked, reached out, grabbed her again—

"Do _not_ ," he hissed, when a confused question flitted over her eyes, "let go of my hand."

She smiled, tightened her fingers around his. "Of course. My bad. Now, shall we?"

And from that moment on, brother and sister ventured off into a journey, Natalie leading the way and profusely refusing to tell him what her 'surprise' was, even as Ian constantly threatened her into saying what on the bloody hell it was. It quickly turned into an argument of whether or not it was better to inflict fear or be respected as a strategy of manipulation—a long-debated subject in Lucian circles—and both ended up to be so deep into their conversation that they hadn't realized that they'd exchanged positions and had started defending what they'd been attacking earlier. It had them laughing at their own stupidities, mindless of time and oblivious to everything else, simply basking in the joy of each other's company.

They passed through the vivid, green woods, the air so full of life it sang. There was also the constant sound of the stream from which fish leapt into the air. Ian observed how Natalie seemed to keep track of the stream, so he deducted from that she may be taking him to a lake, or whatever treasure lay at the end of the river.

A journey he didn't want ended.

Ian noticed that there were ripe, red apples hanging from overhead—the fruit trees were practically brimming. He picked two and gave one to Natalie, who accepted it graciously but still kept chattering on about how Mum wouldn't let them out of the mansion and into the nearby forests without panicking and having to send her homing poodles to locate them. Ian laughed and shared his memory of him and Amy having to use the same method when she and Dan got themselves lost in a forest as well.

Natalie would blush angrily (…?) whenever Ian kept stirring the conversation towards that 'irritating, yammering, idiotic little moron', so she would keep teasing him about him and his 'precious peasant crush; you _shame_ me with your tastes, brother.'

And on and on it went, the siblings a pair of butterflies hovering and fluttering from topic to topic, relishing every moment of it like they were sweet nectar. They told of stories, of tales, of memories, of emotions, with pride masking neither of their faces—because when you've lost someone and thought that you were never to see them again, you would realize exactly how precious a single moment is, how fragile time is, how you've squandered each sunrise with bitterness, when you should have been breathing in every second of it because tomorrow, it might be gone.

Because time will pass, it will and you are powerless to stop it, and if you'd taken it for granted you wouldn't even realize that you've fallen behind—before you could scream for the sun to _wait_ for you, it's already descended. When the darkness of the night comes, you are left a mess of regrets, regretting that instead of sunny joy, it is worldly pride that you've bred into your memory, squandering the chance of sunlight while you had it. Because pride only shines in the presence of the sun, it cannot give off the light you'll need to guide you as you wade through the night's darkness—very unlike how memory could.

So lost in their own worlds they were, that they haven't even noticed that the sun had already travelled across the sky and was now preparing to set on the west.

But they weren't regretting anything. They had nothing to regret when all they did all day was to capture each golden moment into their hands and keeping them in the treasure chests of their hearts.

It was only when Natalie glimpsed a glimmer of blue from the horizon did she stop talking. She said, so mesmerizingly, as if she herself were bound by a spell—

"Ian…"

"Hm?"

"We're here."

"We're _where?_ "

And she pulled at his hand, and he followed; both ran laughing, wind whipping at their hair as their designer-tended feet followed the path of the roaring stream—

But like all good things, it ended.

(The question is, did it _have_ to?)

Ian looked ahead where Natalie had brought him, and saw that just where the river ended began the shore of a glittering lake, where the swells of its brilliant blue reflected the orange of the setting sun.

He beheld the sight with Natalie beside him, and like the sunrise, they together watched the sun set into the sparkling lake. Soon enough, the blue was gilded with a blanket of golden light, as the sun prepared to sleep within the depths of its waters.

After long moment of silence, he chuckled.

" _This_ is your surprise? The sun actually sets."

But Natalie didn't laugh with him. Only said, silently, "You know, Ian? They're waiting for you."

…for once throughout the entire day, Ian's response was only silence.

"Amy is crying your name," she continued, even as her own eyes were covered with a sheen of moist. Or was it just the reflection of the amber sun? "Across this lake, on the other side. It's so easy for you to see her again." She gestured at the wooden boat floating ashore, noticing only then how Ian had been staring at it since she'd started talking. "You will only have to sail."

A moment passed, the sky purpling in each second. And then Ian broke his hand from hers, (Natalie turned her head, bit her lip, clenched her fists) as he approached the little boat that floated just ashore. It was on the verge of drifting away, were it not tied onto a boulder by a rope. He let his hand touch the wooden craft, and there as he admired the wood, realization fell onto his eyes—that he could live again, perhaps, and it would be like nothing had ever happened, it would be _so_ _perfect_ , if he could just…

He turned back to face her, a determination set on his eyes. He grasped her little hands in his, and he looked at her so intensely in the eyes that they burned, and he breathed _—_

"Come with me."

"But Ian, I…" If her smile was a broken thing, her voice was a shattered mess. "I'm dead. I can't."

His feet met shattered mirrors. He closed his eyes.

"…Then I will not."

Natalie reprimanded him with a light punch to the chest. " _No,_ Ian. You choose. Don't let my death dictate you. And besides, would you truly want me to awaken in the real world as a half-rotten corpse, buried six feet underneath? I shall already be dead from panic when you managed to dig me up. So no, thank you; I'm as content as I will ever be. But you, understand this: _you can still go_. She told me so. It's her gift to you. 'For setting me free,' she said."

He arched a questioning eyebrow. " _Who_ gave me this choice?"

"A little girl named Glinda. In fact, she'd even been so kind as to grant us this entire day to ourselves. I don't know _how_ , obviously, like I know how anything works in this strange reality. But I do know this: once you step in that wooden craft, and let yourself be taken away into the twilight, you will see Amy again."

And then she looked at him, her whole form awash with the urgency of the setting sun's ochre glow.

"But you have to make the choice _now_ , brother. Once the sun sets, you will have let the chance go."

"Why…why me?"

"A gift from her to you." Her tone turned to joking. "Something about an act of love…you saving that sloppy Jake Rosenbloom from imminent death, when that's all you wished to inflict on him since the first day."

Ian's nostrils flared, even as there was the laughter in his eyes. "I did _not_ —"

"The bards now have a true legend to sing!" laughed Natalie. "My brother, a _martyr_ , saving his beloved's beloved, even if it was against his will!"

"Natalie, I did it all _willingly_ —"

"Oh, _did_ you, now?"

"Where is this doubt coming from?"

"A lack of reason for me _not_ to doubt you, maybe?"

He sighed. "Then if you must know. I do hate Rosenbloom, but how can I let him die, when he was someone's brother?" He thought of Atticus. Step-brothers though they were… "He was someone's all that he ever had. And I wouldn't want him…"

He closed his eyes, tightened his hold on his sister's hand, and breathed in the last ray of sunshine before it completely descended to bring the night.

"…I wouldn't want her left alone."

Natalie may have choked in her tears right then and there. She didn't want to act so selfishly, but she couldn't help but be…

Glad.

Because once again he'd proven that he wouldn't choose anything over her.

"Th-then…," she began, stumbling over her words because she was laughing, laughing at how ridiculously sentimentally she was taking this. Brushing at her tears away, she bounced on her feet as enthusiastically as if she was once more that adorable five-year-old girl that was his little sister, eager as always for teatime.

"Shall we go have a cup of tea, then? Mum's gone to meet Papa, but she'll be back in time to join us. Help me prepare?"

He offered her an arm, a prince to his princess. Smirked.

"Just take me with you."

And then the two walked away, fading away into memories.

* * *

It was a bright sunny day, and like the haughty English they were, they were having tea. And nothing was more perfect than having tea out in the gardens, where peace was the brilliant blue sky guarding them with their clouds of angels from overhead.

The young brother and his little sister sat around their tea table, luscious and brimming with afternoon snacks—meringue pies, scones, chocolate cakes, blancmange, and custards to pair their plate of biscuits. The children quite had the sweet tooth, and surely they wouldn't be able to finish all these food on their own. But, if their butler Bickerduff were to remark, he would chuckle and say that these two rightly deserved this break after their tortuous week of studying.

And anyway, the house butler wouldn't irresponsibly serve all these desserts in front of these children if he knew they couldn't finish it all. After all, he had been instructed specifically by the house heads to prepare such a meal, because they both planned to surprise the children both in the midst of their tea session.

And surprised they were, almost dropping their cups of honey-blended chamomile tea in the process.

" _Mum?"_

Isabel strode over to her children as gracefully as a model, and declared, smirking triumphantly, "Look who I've dragged into our little party, children."

From behind her was Vikram, who was muttering something about 'leaving in the middle of the meeting just because this devil of a woman demanded it'.

Natalie grinned at her mother in greeting. "I suppose you've been too harsh to Papa again?"

"Not harsh, dear, no," replied Isabel, who settled herself in one of the seats, and delicately crossing her legs. "I was merely…too charming to be resisted."

Vikram snorted at that.

Ian, on the other hand, was the one who greeted his father. "Well, hello, Father. This is…a pleasant surprise."

Vikram chuckled as he ruffled his son's hair, before handing over his coat over to Bickerduff when the butler gracefully offered to take it. "A pleasant surprise as well, son. But enough with the pleasantries—I'm famished. What do we have here?"

As Bickerduff all too happily listed off the menu for his master, and the adults complained that the meal was too sweet, the children looked at each other, and smiled.

Some could say that this was worthy of a long tale's _the end_ , but the contentment felt too eternal for such a meagre earthbound statement.


End file.
